


Life-Size Ghosts

by cymbalism



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark Dean Winchester, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Domesticity, Ghost Sex, Hand Jobs, Haunting, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Ouija, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, momentary Cas/Meg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27068656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymbalism/pseuds/cymbalism
Summary: Castiel Novak has lost his job, moved halfway across the country, and purchased an old house he isn't prepared to fix up. Dean Winchester is the ghost that's haunting him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Mentioned Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester - Relationship
Comments: 69
Kudos: 298
Collections: DCBB 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Lordy. The date of origin on this fic doc on my hard drive is Nov 2, 2013. Today I'm posting the completed story just shy of seven whole years later. I won't walk you through it all here, friends, but getting to this moment has been _a journey_. 
> 
> Meeting me here at the end of my sojourn is subtextiel with some exceptional art, and I'm in love. Check out his masterpost [here](https://subtextiel.tumblr.com/post/633371000828018688/my-work-for-deancasbigbang-2020-for-cymbalisms)!
> 
> I owe [archeolatry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry/pseuds/archeolatry) a debt of gratitude for her attendant beta-ing. Her every suggestion was gentle and always exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you, new friend. You're a generous soul. 
> 
> And let's hear it for DCBB mods Aceriee, Diamond, and Superhoney! Thank you for answering my every nervous question with patience, steadily encouraging us all every step of the way, and running one hellofa tight operation.
> 
> It's been a personal goal of mine to participate in DCBB since first joining the SPN fandom in 2010. As a pretty dedicated ~~PWP~~ oneshot writer, I never thought I'd have the chops for it. Ten years later—and at the end of the series' run—by golly, here I am with a chapter fic that has a plot and everything. It's not often I achieve these kinds of dreams, so I'm gonna go ahead and admit to being proud of myself.
> 
> Thanks for being here to celebrate with me, friends. I hope you enjoy the story.

The realtor is waiting on the front porch when Castiel pulls up in his rental car, her smile as tight as her grip on the folders of paperwork clutched to her chest. The windy spring day tosses the budding branches of a sprawling maple tree in the yard, but Castiel suspects she’s not bracing in the wind. Her tension probably has more to do with the fact that he’d called just yesterday to inform her that he’d be purchasing the property, at the asking price, sight unseen. Not a typical transaction, especially not in this part of the country. 

As Castiel steps from the car and his black leather Cole Haans sink into the mud of Kansas soil for the first time, he is very conscious that nothing about him is typical here, and not only because he’s rumpled from twenty hours on the road. 

“Mr. Novak!” the realtor chirps, hand extended, as he climbs the porch steps. “I’m Ava Wilson. We spoke on the phone,” she explains unnecessarily. 

He greets her with a nod and solemn hello. She shuffles the folders from one arm to the other and digs into her pocket to pull out a house key. 

“Would you like to see inside? I could give you a quick tour. You know, just to be sure. The house, it’s, um—it’s a special property, Mr. Novak. You really should see it first. Really.” Her eyes widen and voice drops as she insists, but then seems to remember herself. “Just to know what you’re getting into!” she adds lightly, but her laugh is fluttery. 

Castiel cocks his head, appraising her for a moment the way he considers— _considered_ —complex risk scenarios and pushy trading-desk jocks. His coworkers had several jokes about his stare and its unsettling effect. Ava fidgets under it too. She’s omitting something, but Castiel can’t find it in himself to be suspicious. He should be. 

Thirty-six hours ago he was a senior risk management analyst at Angelus, one of the largest investment banking firms in the country. He should be wary that this farmhouse and the not-insignificant parcel of land it sits on are selling at a cost below even the average value for the rural Midwest. It’s not a bargain, it’s a steal and Castiel should want to know why; should examine the wiring and plumbing and potential for termites. He should research the previous owners, he should ask questions about the costs of heating in the winter. But asking questions and examining data and weighing consequences—that’s not his job anymore. 

He’d tried to warn them—tried to save them—and they punished him for it. They took his office, his company phone, his building access card. They gave him a severance and escorted him out of the building. And on that last elevator ride, falling fast as the floors ticked by, stood between the two security guards that held his elbows while he held the box of his personal belongings, Castiel did the calculation and knew he couldn’t stay in the city. They weren’t just taking his livelihood, they were taking his home. He’d never find another job on Wall Street—the black mark for getting kicked out of Angelus was the permanent kind—and he wouldn’t keep his loft or lifestyle long without one. The only life he knew how to live was effectively over. His only option was to start a new one, preferably somewhere far, far away.

So he’d found a bar. He’d never been a drinker and he never patronized the kind of bars with sticky floors and decor by Budweiser on wood paneled walls, but he found a bar. He plunked his half-full box on the stool beside him and ordered whiskey shots until he started to feel that slow creep of apathy. Then he teetered to the back of the empty establishment, passed the pool tables, picked up a dart from the cabinet, and aimed it at the map of the United States tacked between the restroom doors. When it landed somewhere in middle America, Castiel raised his fists in the air in triumph, laughing at his improbable bullseye. The bartender didn’t think the extra hole in his wall was quite as funny though, and for the second time that day Castiel was escorted from a building, but not before he got a glimpse of where the dart had landed: northeast Kansas. 

Ava doesn’t wait for him to answer. She opens the wooden screen storm door and props it with an elbow. When Castiel reaches out to hold it for her, she startles, hand to her heart. “Oh! Oh, it’s you, Mr. Novak. I mean, thank you, Mr. Novak.” 

She resumes fitting the key to the lock and gives a quick knock as she opens the door, calling into the house, “Hello, anyone home?” and turning back to Castiel with another tittering laugh. He frowns. She clears her throat and moves further inside the house. 

She stations herself on the left side of the entryway, and Castiel bypasses her to examine the living room. 

“So, the house was built in the early nineteen-hundreds,” begins Ava’s spiel. Castiel only half listens.

A bay window with a deep ledge is the focal point of the northwest corner of the large room, sure to catch the evening light. At the moment, it barely passes through the panes, gray as they are with years of field dust and spattered storm remnants stuck to the outside. There’s another large window on the north wall, but the room remains dim, as though it’s too tired to wake up. 

The realty website had said the house was partially furnished, but he hadn’t expected to find antiques. There’s a freestanding console cabinet with the futuristic lines of ’40s-era design in the opposite corner from the door that he suspects might be hiding a radio and maybe a turntable. 

“It has four bedrooms, one full bath upstairs and a half bath downstairs,” Ava continues, glancing at her notes. “The main floor here, as you can see, also consists of a large living room, a dining area, and a really spectacular farm kitchen around the corner there.” All the fixtures appear original—the glass door knobs with brass plates on the beveled doors and the wood moldings throughout are particularly lovely. “Considering it hasn’t been occupied for quite a while, it’s in remarkable condition. Really well cared for. Or, preserved, I mean.” She clears her throat again. “Anyway, the plumbing is serviceable. Electricity is, um, sporadic?”

Castiel runs a hand over the wooden bannister of the staircase, and mounts the first step, peering up. Light filters from the open bathroom door over the dust in the hall. Some of the stairs look damaged. There are a few spindles missing from the railing.

“There’s a clawfoot tub up there!” Ava pipes up, bending to the side in an attempt to follow Castiel with her voice. “Cast iron!” Castiel nods and backs off the stairs. 

He continues along the hall created by the stairwell wall, toward a door that leads into the kitchen. “Cast-iron sink in there, too!” Ava calls and, yes, Castiel sees it, a large farmhouse sink with two deep wells.

The kitchen’s cherry woodwork is dusty but thankfully unpainted and the cupboard doors are windowed. They’re dirty but only a few are broken. At the end of the cabinets, there’s a sturdy door with a window that leads outside, to a wide-open backyard that bleeds into neighboring fields and distant horizon. Castiel’s not a great judge of distance, but the nearest dot of white indicating another farmhouse seems miles off.

On the wall opposite the countertop and cabinets, there’s an entryway leading into the dining room, which contains another surprise antique—a massive old china hutch. The dining room walls are covered in faded, peeling wallpaper that will have to go. Another door at the front end of the room, to the right of the windows, leads him back into the main entryway.

Ava is still at her post by the door. “I hope you like it.” Her eyes dart around nervously. 

He does like it, actually, but that’s beside the point. “I’ve already agreed to purchase it.”

“Oh, well, yes. But you haven’t changed your mind, right? I mean, not that there’s a reason you might have.” 

Castiel narrows his eyes, studying Ava as she fidgets. His former coworkers would have eaten her alive. He reaches into his overcoat’s breast pocket for his checkbook. 

“This is the price we agreed on,” he states as he scratches out the check. He rips it from the book and holds it out to Ava. “I assume you have some paperwork for me to sign.” 

Ava’s eyes are huge. She gapes a little at the check before accepting it. “That’s— So, the whole sum upfront, then?” 

Castiel shuffles his checkbook back into his pocket. He’d like to be done now. It was a very long drive and he has yet to order a mattress and bedstead for delivery. “Unless that’s a problem?” 

“No!” Ava shakes her head. “No problem! I— Yes, I have paperwork for you,” she wrestles with her folders for a second then stops. “Um, maybe we could go outside to finish up?”

He gestures at the door and Ava’s face floods with relief.

He signs the forms where Ava’s marked X’s, using the trunk of her car as a desk while she chatters about the charms of rural living. She assures him the county road commission plows his road in the winter, reports that the U.S. mail delivers right up to the porch, and suggests his property would support a great garden. Castiel imagines his hands covered in the same soil that’s on his shoes and suppresses a smile. He’s never played in a sandbox let alone dug in the dirt to grow his own food. “I think there’s plenty of work to be done inside the house first,” he says wryly, but as gently as he can. 

She flushes pink. “Oh, you’re right. Of course.” 

Castiel skims the last page of the deed of sale before signing each copy. “Bottom copy is mine?” he asks, even as he tugs it out of the stack.

Ava nods absently and accepts her folders and paperwork back, bottom lip pinned in her teeth. 

Already thinking about his next moves—mattress delivery, grocery store, purchase more durable shoes—Castiel tucks his folded deed into his breast pocket and puts his best manners back on. “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Wilson. I’m very happy we could come to an arrangement.” He smiles at her and extends his hand.

She takes it and shakes weakly, still distracted, but when he tries to release her, she squeezes tight, not allowing him to let go. 

“Mr. Novak? It’s just—” She looks up at the house. “Good luck. With your work inside, I mean. Just, good luck.” 

She hadn’t said everything she wanted to, Castiel senses, but he doesn’t push. It’s clear enough she’s happy to be free of the property, and he knows he has a lot of work ahead. Never mind gardening, he’d never (well, hardly ever) picked up a hammer, let alone refurbished a house. He’ll need all the luck he’s offered. 

He thanks her and she releases his hand, eyes bright with unspoken worry. The next moment she’s wiped it away, however, and she dangles the keys from her thumb and forefinger with a smile before dropping them into his palm. He smiles back and gives a cursory half salute as she climbs into her car. 

Even the tail lights of Ava’s Honda seem relieved as she pulls away. 

Castiel looks at the keys in his hand then up at his new home. He tries to imagine it on a sunnier day, when the windows don’t look so dark and the porch is repainted. It’s a distant vision. For now they’re both the same, he and the house. Starting from the same place together—mostly empty and a little bit broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you like fic soundtracks? Are you an obsessive playlist maker like me? If so, check out the [Life-Size Ghosts]() playlist on Spotify for a sample of the songs I used as inspiration for this story.
> 
> Further inspiration props go to the film _Margin Call_ (2011), which inspired Cas's backstory and [@cheapoldhouses](https://www.instagram.com/cheapoldhouses/?hl=en) on Instagram.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn is different in Kansas. Early pink light bleeds through the fields of tall grasses behind the house until the sun itself appears, a great orange orb rather than a distant, flat disc. Castiel stands at the kitchen sink with a mug of coffee as he has for the past several mornings, watching. He hasn’t showered yet—might not shower at all today. He also hasn’t shaved for a while, and he’s wearing the same jeans and tee he wore yesterday. The few suits he brought with him all hang in the closet of the bedroom he’s chosen to sleep in, the only one without broken window panes. Dawn isn’t the only difference in his new life. 

Castiel’s first night alone in the house had been cold. He’d slept on his new mattress in layers of his running clothes and a fraternity sweatshirt he hadn’t worn since college. He’s since called someone about the old but operational boiler in the cellar Ava had probably mentioned when he hadn’t been listening. The house has heat now—for what it’s worth given all the drafts—and hot water. Coffee helps. Castiel squints at the sun and takes a sip.

The silence here is different too. It’s not completely silent, of course. The chirping chorus of birds outside is loud enough to wake him before dawn, and if he listens close enough he can hear the wind whisper through the field grass. The house itself creaks like an old man’s knees, and even though the man from the heating service bled the radiators the pipes shake and bang as steam pours into them. Occasionally Castiel hears doors open or close downstairs while he’s upstairs, though he hasn’t yet identified the culprit drafts. 

Sometimes Castiel thinks it’s alive, the house. Or coming back to life, maybe. It will if he does it right. 

Once he has the motivation to do anything at all. 

He’s made a list. It’s the only thing he’s done beyond calling the heating service—a pretense of progress. Every day he’s been up at dawn, and every day he wanders his empty rooms, studying what’s there and what has to be done, tracing his fingers along dusty wood moldings and peeling off pieces of rotted wallpaper. He does this until dusk, until it’s too dark to catalogue cracks in the plaster and loose floor boards, and then he sleeps until dawn. It’s routine. It’s quiet. It’s what there is to do. It’s the only thing keeping him from slipping out of life entirely. 

The list is already very long, items prioritized by necessity and size of project, down to the cosmetic. He doesn’t actually know how to do everything on it, but that first day—his only day—in town he’d met a man at the hardware store who was wary but helpful when Castiel asked for advice in purchasing a rudimentary tool set and located the public library, which he assumes will have resources for restoration projects. He has time to learn. 

He has nothing but time. Time, unworn suits, and an unused tool set. 

Shoving aside that thought before it turns bitter, he sets down his mug and moves to make toast. The contents of his New York apartment are due to arrive in a few days and he’s resolved to dust and sweep and generally clean the rooms on the first floor to prepare the space. He’s decided to begin with the dining room, since it’s the smallest. Looking out at the sunrise, toast in one hand, Castiel reaches for his coffee with the other, but his hand passes through air. He glances down at the countertop to see the mug perched on the very edge, not at all where he thought he’d set it down. He shrugs to himself, and reaches for it, but just as his fingers brush its side, the mug tips to the floor and coffee splashes over the floor and up the wall. 

He sighs. 

Or, he’ll begin in the kitchen. 

*

_Sporadic_ had been Ava’s word for the house’s electricity. Castiel had assumed that meant it would flicker occasionally, or the main breaker might flip off at random. And over the last few days those things have indeed happened, though it’s rare he turns on overhead lights or uses electronics other than the toaster oven. But he also finds that almost no outlet ever works twice, particularly for charging his phone. 

It isn’t exactly necessary to keep it charged, or even on. He’s long since deleted work-related applications and avoids his email account. Why torture himself with stock tickers when he’s no longer required to check in on what the market’s doing? What use does he have for email, or phone service, when there’s no one from his old life willing to break Angelus ranks and contact him? But it’s the principle of the thing. He should be able to charge his cell phone in his house. He should be able to rely on his electrical outlets. 

And yet . . . 

The outlet in the bedroom where he sleeps had worked the first night, but not the next time he tried. An outlet in the kitchen didn’t work at all, even though it was on the same wall (and therefore presumably on the same breaker) as the toaster oven, which was working. The living room outlets were hit or miss, depending on the day. One morning he woke to find the phone reached full battery life while plugged in overnight, but it died within the day even though he hadn’t touched it.

The real mystery is that the outlets work perfectly well each time Castiel plugs in the small desk lamp that came from New York in his filing box of belongings. Working off that knowledge, he purchased a new phone charger, which made no difference. He even used precious battery life to call the service provider to inquire about design flaws and ask advice. The customer service representative advised him to call an electrician. He’s now systematically tested every outlet in the house, always with the same _sporadic_ results. 

He’s circling the dining room for the second time when it occurs to him he hasn’t checked behind the china hutch. It’s such a fixture in the room Castiel doesn’t think of it as separate from the wall, but it must be, of course. He examines the hutch’s position and possible weaknesses and makes up his mind that it’s worth a try. He’ll have to get behind it eventually anyway to remove the wallpaper. Propping a hip against one side and working his fingers between the wood and the wall, he pushes. There’s a scrape and a rattle and a scary moment he thinks the whole thing might topple, but he manages it. When he stands back he notices the hutch is only a few inches from where it was—definitely heavier than it appeared. Still, it’s a few inches enough to peer behind it and find . . . no outlet. 

Castiel clunks his head against the hutch with a sigh. “You win,” he mutters. The score so far is something like 800 to 0. 

Peeling himself back to full height, he examines the hutch for what caused that rattling sound. It wasn’t just the creaky swing of the drawer pulls, it sounded like something had rolled. The top drawer sticks and it takes some tugging, but when it finally gives way he’s proved right on this, at least. Bits and pieces of a past life tumble to the front—a very old box of staples, an empty fountain pen, a thimble, a tin of shoe polish, and an old Kodak lens canister. Castiel studies each of them, wondering at how long they’ve been in there, who they belonged to. 

There’s also a little plastic toy soldier, standing at the ready, sighting down the barrel of his rifle, his paint chipped. Castiel smiles at him, hefts the figure in his hand. 

Reminding himself he has to get back to cleaning before he loses all momentum—and daylight—Castiel closes the drawer, leaving the little collection where he found it, where the original owners presumably wanted it. But on impulse he pops open the display glass door and sets the toy soldier on a shelf, positioning him just so before gently shutting it again. He couldn’t say why. 

*

After nearly a week of sweeping and scrubbing, half a dozen trash bags of debris, countless buckets of dirtied water, and the development of a suspected mold allergy, the house feels ready. Or maybe it’s that Castiel feels ready—ready to try a project, ready to attempt the world again. 

He’d never been the brave one. That was the joke about risk analysts, right? Always scared of the uncertainties. All prediction, no action. Just carefully plotted courses for other people to take. He’d borne the jibes of his brash, back-slapping coworkers, moved in their circles as more of an orbiting satellite than a star. But if he envied them anything it was their confidence. Observation of and appreciation for work well done had been its own reward, what he staked his sense of self on. He’d withstood the powerful tide of Wall Street because he was good at his job and knew its—and therefore _his_ —value, but he’d never had natural confidence. And then when Angelus ejected him, well.

It wasn’t lost on him that he was hiding among the walls of this house even as he was cleaning them. 

Today, though, today the sun is bright and high, the Kansas mud has dried to fertile earth that looks as if it might sprout life soon, and Castiel decides to venture into town for more than just cleaning supplies. There are some simple repair projects at the top of his list he’d like to research, and he’d spotted a diner that he might try for lunch. Something about today makes the prospect of local fare seem charming rather than dietarily dangerous.

The Lawrence Public Library is a 1970s eyesore of squat construction flanked by white pillars of stucco, like someone’s minimalist reinterpretation of the Parthenon. Inside it’s exactly the kind of well-loved-but-underfunded space Castiel had always read about in the _Times_ with a color palette still mostly composed of avocado and orange against gray faux stone walls. 

To his right is clearly the children’s department—a medley of bright colors, low shelving units, and not particularly quiet children—in front of him is the circulation desk and adult fiction. To his left, just beyond the racks of new arrivals, he spots a sign for the reference section. He nods politely at the elderly woman behind the circulation desk who’s peering at him over her reading glasses as he makes his way over. 

Once there, he’s greeted by another helpful sign. This one is taped to a faux stone pillar at the end of a shelf row and reads CARD CATALOGUE with an arrow pointing down to a computer station below. Castiel frowns at it.

“Looking a little lost there, handsome. Need some help?” 

Castiel looks up to see a brunette with an armful of books smiling at him. He turns his back on the so-called card catalogue.

“I’m in need of a plumbing manual,” he answers, and the woman’s laugh sounds almost surprised. 

“Haven’t you heard of YouTube? It’s all the rage,” she says as she unloads her books onto a nearby counter. “Hardly anybody uses a library for things like that these days.”

Castiel wrinkles his forehead, but when she waves for him to follow her into the stacks, he does. 

“I just moved here. My house doesn’t have an internet connection,” he explains. Both statements are true enough. 

“Job security for me, then.” Castiel doesn’t miss the coy quirk in her smile or the quick rake of her eyes over him as they turn down one of the narrow aisles. 

“I’m Castiel,” he says, holding out his hand. 

She takes it, a flicker of victory in her smile. “Castiel?”

“I was named for the angel.” He’d forgotten how much he hates having to explain that to strangers.

“Ooh, how exotic. You really aren’t a local boy, then. Well, angel baby, I’m Meg and these—” she plants a hand against a row of thick-spined books “—are the plumbing manuals.” Castiel nods but before he can step forward to examine the titles, Meg slips between him and books, sidling sideways. “If you need anything else, don’t be shy.”

Castiel fights the flush he feels creeping up into his cheeks. It’s been a long time since someone attempted to flirt with him—well before he was kicked out of Angelus. His people skills had never been as smooth as his coworkers’ to begin with, and they’re even rustier now. He clears his throat but his thanks still comes out gravelled. 

Meg’s smile goes wide before she drifts away.

*

Half an hour later he has the texts he needs plus a few more on refurbishment and stops by the reference desk, resolved to better thank Meg for her help. Before he can even begin, though, she’s eyed his selection and is ready with a retort. “Landed yourself a fixer-upper?”

Castiel swallows his prepared statement and forces himself at ease. Meg seems to like unsettling him—perhaps everyone—but the read he gets is playful rather than malicious. 

“To say the least. It’s a worthy project though, I think.”

The words are something of a surprise; he can’t say why he thinks that. Maybe he’s just stubborn, but with every layer of grime he lifts, every small task he completes, the house already feels less empty.

“Where’s the new place?”

Meg’s eyes are assessing him again and he allows himself to assess in return, noting her long dark hair and open face. There’s something appealing about her cheekbones. It’s also been a long time since Castiel felt like noticing someone. He suspects Meg’s motivation is different than his own, but he won’t dismiss the possibility of friendship. He’d never had many friends, just brothers and coworkers—his family had been his job and his job had been his life. He isn’t sure what his life is now, but it has more room in it. 

“There’s an old farm house just outside of town. I understand it’s been empty for several years.” He wonders again about what he’d found in the china hutch—the fountain pen, the shoe polish, the toy soldier that’s still standing sentry over his dining room. 

Meg reels back an inch. “You bought the Campbell place?” 

“I . . . don’t know. It’s north of town, near the county line.”

“That’s the one,” she nods. “The Campbell family built it like a hundred years ago. All kinds of tragic, local-legend backstories about that house. I thought the county was going to bulldoze the old place to keep the kids out but, hey, that’s great. I mean, spooky, but good for you.”

This is more information than Ava ever provided him—not that he was interested in asking at the time. But one thing stands out among Meg’s description more than the others.

“Spooky?”

She shrugs. “You know, haunted.”

That startles a full laugh from him. “It’s hardly haunted.”

“You sure about that?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

“I’ve got an entire section on the paranormal that begs to differ,” Meg says, pointing with her pencil back toward the book stacks. Castiel just chuckles again and shakes his head. 

“Tell you what,” Meg wags her pencil at him before scribbling something on a post-it. “I’m off most days by six. Call me sometime and we can talk about how not-haunted your house is.” She sticks the post-it to the top book in his stack and smiles up at him.

Castiel cocks his head to read it. It’s a phone number. He returns her smile and bobs a nod. “I will. Thank you.”

*

The library is adjacent to Lawrence’s historic downtown shopping district, and Castiel decides to take advantage of the clear weather to explore. He grabs a visitor’s brochure from the library lobby and sets out on foot, quickly grasping the grid pattern of numbered streets running east-west and streets named for states running north-south. 

Rows of buildings in a neat patchwork of brick line Massachusetts Street in particular, each with its own colorful awning. Some of the business names are the same—Starbucks, Borders, etc.—but local names outnumber the chains, and there isn’t a skyscraper in sight. As a result, the sun casts and chases shadows in a way it can’t in New York, and the sidewalk trees seem healthier for it, spring buds just on the verge of unfurling. 

Other than the expanse of visible sky, what strikes Castiel most is the amount of space below it. Orderly angle parking and broad intersections with wide shoulders stretch the cityscape. There’s room for parking lots and grass curb strips and crosswalks with brick inlay. It’s not as though he’s never visited a small city before, but it’s different thinking about how this may be his city now. 

It doesn’t seem impossible. He spots a number of Asian restaurants worth trying and independent bookshops with Pride flags tucked in windows. Overall, Lawrence seems welcoming, manageable. 

On his way back to the car, Castiel begins to pick out differences and details he hadn’t noticed earlier. Namely, the empty storefronts. There aren’t many, yet. There will be more. Out of curiosity—or, perhaps, penance—he bounces over a few state streets to gain a sense of Lawrence residential life. It’s not reassuring. The houses are quaint turn-of-the-last-century types, some more in need of lawn care than others. If Castiel didn’t know what he does, he’d call it solidly middle class. Except, there’s nothing solid about it. How many of those homes were purchased in the last few years? How many have adjustable-rate mortgages with interest rates that are starting to spike?

He picks up his pace to make it back to the business district and tries not to think about the people around him on the street, blissfully going about their business with no idea what’s about to happen. 

Assuming Castiel’s right, of course. But if he wasn’t right, Angelus wouldn’t have fired him. He wouldn’t be in Lawrence if he wasn’t right.

*

He isn’t ready when the movers arrive. 

He had been ready, three days prior, when a phone call from the moving company informed him his delivery was delayed “due to an unforeseen delivery conflict,” but he isn’t ready now. He’s mid–paint prep in the living room and most of the way thought peeling several decades of wallpaper from the dining room.

“Novak, right?” asks a man in a garish yellow shirt. He’s got one foot planted on the first porch step, clipboard balanced on his knee as he thumbs thick, dirt-smudged fingers through the paperwork. “Where d’you want it?”

Castiel stands on the porch, half gaping at the trailer truck backed up to his door and the handful of movers swarming over it, opening hatches and pulling down ramps. He pushes a hand through his hair and sighs. “The living room, I guess. Just—try to keep away from the walls.” He’d begun priming them during his three extra days. 

The man nods as he backs away, barking instructions at his crew. 

A few hours later the house is jumble of boxes and furniture. It’s strange how it simultaneously seems like so much and yet so little. Castiel’s been living with so few possessions that the sea of cardboard before him feels like endless indulgence, though it’s striking that the contents of his entire New York life now fit in just one room of this house. Still, he’s far more excited to have his things than he expected to be. He unpacks his dishes so he can stop using paper plates, sorts his expanded wardrobe into his dresser, and even makes an appointment with the cable company to hook up his television and internet.

That night the house creaks and moans a little more than usual. Probably because it’s windy out. A spring storm could be moving in, which reminds him that he should really read up on tornado season now that he lives in Kansas. 

For the first time in the two weeks he’s been in his new home, Castiel feels like listening to music. 

On a whim he weaves his way through the boxes and hunts for a plug on the console radio that came with the house. He’d discovered earlier that the cabinet’s four doors actually hide a turntable, a speaker, and a cupboard with upright slots for records in addition to the radio. He doesn’t really expect it to work—it’s so old any number of things could be broken, not to mention the house’s sporadic electrical problems. But to his surprise it pops to life and lights up when he plugs it in. 

Castiel smiles, smoothing two fingers over an edge to clean off the dust. He rolls through the dial carefully, listening for any voice to cut through the static. Instead he finds music, pure jazz—better than what he’d hoped for—on a local NPR affiliate. He gives the cabinet an affectionate pat as he turns back to his unpacking, haphazardly humming along to Dave Douglas.


	3. Chapter 3

Noises are one thing. It’s a big house, and it’s old. Eaves creaking, heaters clanging, doors swaying in unidentified drafts—all those things are to be expected and don’t particularly concern Castiel. And sure, he begins to notice objects around the house moving. Or perhaps not moving, precisely, but they appear in places he doesn’t remember putting them, like his coffee cup on that early morning. 

The paint pan, though. That’s something else altogether. One minute he’s rolling a satisfying red onto a feature wall in the living room with the paint pan safely feet away. The next, he takes a step back to assess the coverage, hoping the color dries darker than this initial coat, and squarely plants his right foot in the paint tray. 

“What the—?”

His stocking foot is soaked with red and starting to feel slimy. He only put down so much plastic as drop cloth and certainly can’t cross the living room leaving bloody footprints in his wake. Well, he could. He might have to. Telling himself he can just sand down any paint droplets later when he refinishes the hardwood, Castiel cautiously puts down his roller, balances on his dry foot, and removes his paint-covered sock. 

The thing is, he’d purposefully filled the pan and set it out of his way, at the edge of the wall, to prevent exactly this kind of mistake. He’s not a home makeover genius, but he does possess basic common sense. The paint pan ending up behind him, three feet from where it started, with the plastic bunched up beneath it as though it had been pushed or dragged? That doesn’t make sense. 

He hops to the side and moves to sit down, with the plan of taking off his other sock and using it to wipe the red off his foot. Instead, the hand he extends while levering himself down also lands in the paint pan.

The frustrated groan that escapes his lungs escalates to a frustrated scream and he smacks his paint-wet hand down, hardwood be damned. Castiel counts to five, and then to ten. And then he lifts up his palm and looks at the red handprint left behind. 

If nothing else—if he gives up now—at least he’ll have left his mark on this place. 

*

Obviously he’s just forgetting. His concentration has been divided between several projects, so that’s possible. But in the last few days a number of his tools have gone missing entirely and even though he tells himself he just doesn’t recall wandering away with something in his hand, it’s beginning to try his patience. This was what every book on home repair he’s read warned about—moving onto a new project before fully completing your first (or second, or third) can lead to absentmindedness and induce exasperation. His experience can’t be all that atypical. Still, sometimes Castiel thinks the house is deliberately making things harder on him.

Which isn’t to say he hasn’t had successes. The living room has a new coat of paint, with no further paint pan problems. He’s replaced warped and rotted floor boards in the living room and a bedroom. He did, finally, call an electrician, who installed new outlet sockets and checked his fuse box connections, though the man also reported that “they’re in better shape than they have any right to be, actually,” and Castiel withheld a scoff. There’s a room upstairs he’s converted into a workshop, or at least a place to collect the mess: leftover paint supplies, sandpaper, drill and small power saw, and wood dust. Eventually the room may become his office, but for now his desk is downstairs in a corner of the living room; he doesn’t need it much anyway. And now that he has a kitchen table he prepares himself actual dinners and takes his meals there, thumbing through his ever-growing stack of library books. 

He has a routine, a reason to get out of a bed. It’s an improvement. There’ve even been days he hasn’t thought of Angelus at all, and he’d pushed away the guilt that came with that realization by hammering down the floorboards harder. 

Now, sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor, Castiel balances the library’s copy of _Plumbing for Dummies_ on his lap (he’d already renewed it once). He has the book open to the page on tub faucets and his wrench held tight between his rolled lips—because if he’s touching a tool, he can be sure it won’t disappear on him—while he tries to balance all the pieces in the correct order on top of the new washer. 

That’s when there’s a knock, of course. The sound ricochets up the stairs, startling him into almost dropping everything. Castiel sighs. The window installation service was scheduled for today—another thing he’d forgotten entirely. They can wait a minute, surely.

He takes the wrench from his lips and tightens down the stem nut. If this works, it’ll be his second successful plumbing project of the day and, in theory, the constant drip he’s been hearing through the nights will stop. 

There’s another knock, but Castiel stays steady this time. Just a few more cranks and— 

The knocking becomes a banging. Castiel didn’t even know the house could echo, but it does now. 

“Fine,” he growls and gets to his feet. He checks the stem nut’s hold once more and keeps his wrench in hand as he heads into the hall. “Coming!” he barks from the top of the stairs, hoping to prevent the workmen from knocking down his front door—he doesn’t need another thing to repair. Halfway down, he hears a door open and stops mid-step. 

Would the workmen really let themselves in? 

“Hello?” He cocks an ear toward the first floor, but gets no response and hears nothing. No footsteps, no murmured conversation. Castiel frowns and continues down the stairs, slower now, and stops short again when he gets to the bottom. The front door is open. Sunlight streams through the screen door in a wide arc on the floor, bright enough to cause him to blink and force his vision to readjust as he scans the rest of the living room. It’s empty. 

He takes a few steps forward to peer out the door and over the porch, but there’s no van or truck parked beside his rental. Castiel can’t quite explain it, but he suddenly has the feeling he’s being watched. It prickles over him, a light buzz of static over his skin, raising the hair at the nape of his neck and along his forearms. “Is someone here?” he asks as he turns and makes his way toward the kitchen. He adjusts his grip on the wrench in his hand, ignoring the sudden dampness of his palm.

There’s a creak and a thump just before Castiel reaches the kitchen but when he whips through the door—heart pounding in his throat and wrench up ready to swing—there’s nothing. Nothing but the kitchen door swung open, doorknob bumping against the wall in the breeze. 

Castiel’s shoulders drop and he sighs out his irrational tension. City instincts don’t apply to country living. Or maybe it’s living alone so far out in the country that’s making him paranoid. Either way, there’s nothing and no one here now. Just some cross-draft suction at work on weakened old door latches. Castiel supposes he’ll have to look into repairing or replacing those after all. He closes the kitchen door and secures the lock, then heads back out to the hall. 

He’s just about to mount the stairs when he hears another noise. One foot on the first step, one hand on the rail, his body freezes even as his brain races through possibilities. Could be an upstairs window, could be the slap of a car door outside, could be in the basement. That same crackle of static spreads across his skin and dread floods in, pouring over him like fast-casting lead. Castiel couldn’t turn around now even if he wanted to. 

He listens, strains to hear beyond his heartbeat, until—

“Hello there.”

Fear cracks and Castiel spins. The wrench hits the floor. “What—!”

A middle-aged man in a polo shirt stands outside the open front door. He waves a tube of paper he’s got rolled in one hand. “Hey. I’m here to take a look at your windows. Novak, right?”

Castiel remembers to breathe, and then to close his dropped jaw. The thud of his heart echoes in the tremble of his hands. 

“I— Yes,” he manages and wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs before stepping over the wrench to welcome the windows contractor. 

He’s positive it’s impossible for the house to laugh at him, but Castiel also swears he hears a whisper-light chuckle all the same.

*

One item that never goes missing is the toy army man from the china hutch. 

Castiel had taken it from the cabinet to examine again one afternoon just as his phone began to bleat from somewhere in the kitchen. He plucked the phone out from the pile of clean dishes on the kitchen counter (not at all convinced that’s where he’d left it, but oh well), took the call, and forgot all about putting the soldier back in the hutch. 

Since then he’s bounced around the house, unofficial overseer of Castiel’s restorations. Sometimes he’s swept into a pocket, but most of the time he’s stationed on a shelf or countertop or stack of books. It’s not really a conscious thing. Castiel scoops him up, juggles him in his palm as he thinks about his next move, tosses and catches him idly, like someone more athletic might toss a tennis or baseball. It helps him think, and if he also occasionally gets lost for a time wondering about where the little green army man came from and who left him behind. (A child? a grieving parent?) Well, Castiel works on his own time now. There’s no one to scold him for daydreaming.

*

“Heya handsome, I have something for you,” Meg calls as Castiel steps into the reference department. Silence really isn’t the prized commodity for a library Castiel had always imagined it was, and anyway he’s usually the only patron in this section. 

She drops out of sight to shuffle around on a shelf below the counter, then pops up and spins a manila folder toward him just as he reaches the reference desk.

“Hello, Meg. How are you today?” he asks flatly.

It’s a bit they do, a strangely likable one: Castiel comes for reference repair and remodel books, Meg hands him an article on the paranormal or rambles local lore at him. Her dedication to his conversion is charming, even if he finds the premise farfetched.

Meg rolls her eyes and waves away his niceties. “Read up, it’s good for you.” 

He tosses her a doubtful look from beneath his brow and opens the folder. “Another conspiracy theory?”

“Hard evidence this time.”

“Hard evidence that my house is haunted?” he teases, noting photos with realty signs in front of houses he doesn’t recognize declaring them “Not Haunted” and a few documents peppered with legal jargon.

“Well, that houses can be haunted, yes. It’s all about the possibility, babe.” She sifts through the papers for him and pulls out a court report. “See there was this lawsuit—a fella bought a house, lived in it for a year, and then sued the former owner. He wanted the sale voided and the cost of the house back. Said it’d been sold under false pretenses. Namely, nobody told him the house was haunted.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Castiel says, but Meg just smirks and puts up a ‘not-so-fast’ finger.

“The case went to court and the judge ruled in the prosecution’s—the buyer’s—favor. Turns out there was a newspaper article.” She tugs what looks like a microfiche printout out to the top of the pile. “The former owner gave a local-color interview stating the house was haunted and that he regularly gave tours at Halloween. The court—you hearing me, handsome?—the court declared the house officially haunted. Ruled the former owner had to shell out back to the buyer and take his hunkajunk haunted house back.” Self-satisfaction radiates from Meg. She tips an eyebrow, sure of her argument but awaiting his judgment of the case.

“I don’t know,” Castiel sighs, sing-song skeptical. 

“Aw, come on. These are legal documents. Can’t get much clearer than black and white.” 

That makes Castiel quirk a smile. “Legal isn’t the same as true, or ethical.” Angelus had gotten away with plenty of legal financial maneuvers; it didn’t make them right. 

Meg pushes away from the counter, throwing up her hands before crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s it gonna take for you? I was sure I had you with the legal thing.” Her expression is still fond, though.

After losing faith in everything he’d ever put his confidence in, convincing himself of a new belief seems out of reach. It’s hard enough to believe in himself, let alone ghosts. He shrugs. “Let’s say I’ve become something of a doubting Thomas.”

*

Hard evidence—or at least reasonable doubt—shows up sooner than Castiel ever would’ve expected. 

It’s a restless night, the first in a few weeks. Castiel has been good. _Happy_ might be reaching, but he likes this little life he’s building and has been on an even keel. But now it’s 3:00 AM and he’s not certain he’s slept at all since forcing himself to bed around midnight. 

The bed is too hot but the air is too chilled. His thoughts skip and repeat like a broken record. Memories of Angelus, mostly. Nothing in particular precipitated this—he hasn’t been contacted by anyone from back East and he’s continued to avoid financial news beyond tracking his own investments. But tonight his final projections of impending disaster are on loop in his head and the taste of bitter rejection is on the back of his tongue. 

Castiel shoves aside the bedclothes and just lays there for a moment, weighing his commitment to giving up on sleep and getting out of bed, thereby ruining potential productivity for the rest of the day. He sighs and sits up, rustles around for the sweatshirt he’d discarded earlier and tugs it on as he pads out of the room. 

That’s when he hears the TV. 

And that can’t be right because he’s sure he’d turned it off. But then again, his short-term memory is proving to have more holes than those inexplicably popular foam crocodile shoes. Castiel plods down the steps—doing a poor job of batting away worry about early-onset Alzheimer’s—and rounds the corner into the empty living room to find the TV’s light splashing color, brightening and darkening as the channel changes and . . . that . . . that isn’t right either. 

Castiel blinks. He can’t see the screen, but that’s the jingle to the local car dealership, cut off mid-word— 

That’s a snippet of infomercial spiel— 

That’s a sports commentator (the Royals won)— 

And that’s the heavy breathing of a steamy sex scene. 

The TV’s not just on, it’s changing channels. But there’s no one. There’s the couch and Castiel’s haphazard stacks of boxes and the TV, moaning and panting and glowing into the otherwise dark. 

_Sporadic electricity_ is not responsible for this. 

Castiel’s fingers grip into fists. “Hello?” he asks the empty room, throat hoarse. 

The TV screen promptly goes black and Castiel gasps.

“Okay,” he breathes out. “Okay.” 

He forces himself forward into the dark. Maybe it is some kind of weird fuse problem. Maybe it was a glitch with the cable provider. There are always rational explanations, as he’s always telling Meg. He reaches for the armrest of the sofa in the dark, hand trembling as he feels for the remote. It’s where he left it. 

Meg’s stories are just getting to him. And even if she’s right, even if the house is somehow—impossibly—haunted, it’s probably the benign kind she’s explained to him. A residual energy. Maybe that’s why it affects his electricity. That’s a plausible scenario. 

He finds a fuller appreciation for the word “spooky” as he takes a seat on the sofa. The gallop of his heart makes his body want to race. His lungs scream for more air. But he keeps a studied cool as he eases back into the cushions, deliberate, like not showing fear to a predator. 

Does that mean he, at some level, believes there’s a predator? He shakes away the thought. He can’t square that right now. There isn’t— There can’t be someone, something, here, watching him. But still. There’s no going back to sleep now. 

He pushes the power button on the remote and the TV glows back to life. It stays on and Castiel stays awake until just after dawn. 

It’s only after his eyelids slide closed, his chin droops to his chest, and the remote slips to the floor that the television switches back to the sex-scene channel. 

*

He doesn’t tell Meg. It’s a decision made out of pride, perhaps, but also persistent skepticism. Once the sun is up and burning its arc through that endless blue Kansas sky from one side of the house to the other, it’s hard to remember what happened that night, let alone believe there could be a spirit lingering in the house’s shadows. So Castiel carries on, fixing, improving, tweaking. He finishes scraping off the wallpaper layers from the dining room and—fingers wrinkled and drenched to his elbows from hours of spongeing warm water on the walls to loosen the glue—vows to never, ever add another. 

A week, a heap of used sandpaper, and a can of primer later, the dining room already looks fresher, brighter, friendlier—even with the china hutch looming at the center of the room covered in a drop cloth. He spends a morning applying the first coat of paint to the room, but when his stomach growls in protest that he neglected to ingest anything other than coffee for breakfast, he concedes to a break. 

“Lunch time,” he informs the army man, currently standing sentry atop the china hutch, rifle dutifully aimed. Castiel stretches a couple pieces of plastic wrap over his roller and paint pan. “Watch this stuff for me, will you? Make sure it doesn’t wander off anywhere.” 

Talking to the toy soldier started after the TV incident. He recognizes it’s maybe a little nuts, but somehow it feels less nuts pretending someone is actually in the house than suspecting the spirit of a deceased someone is. In the back of his brain there’s a memory of his coworkers lampooning Tom Hanks and a volleyball, but he continues talking aloud to the soldier anyway.

He throws together a sandwich and grabs a glass of water. It’s a sunny day; he should go outside, eat on the porch, take a lap around the house. But instead he shuffles into the living room, perches on the arm of the sofa, and flicks on the TV. Just a half hour, he thinks, clicking through the channels, a short mental break, just enough to— 

CNN has the story. Angelus is failing. It’s sold off its shares in a fire sale, tanking the market in a day. Analysts are worried it’s the first domino to fall. There’s live footage outside Angelus headquarters, a static shot of the building’s entrance, no one entering or exiting. The crawl at the bottom of the screen ticks off the damage to the Dow, stock prices falling, falling, falling. 

Castiel swallows his bite of sandwich but his appetite is gone. 

It’s happening. Angelus is plummeting far and fast and taking the industry with it. 

Just as he’d predicted. 

*

Castiel loses momentum in the days after the news of Angelus’s crash. 

Three days unshaven, dark smudges under sunken eyes, and half heartedly holding a screwdriver for a reason he can’t remember, Castiel watches his forty-somethingth hour of CNN coverage while standing in the living room. Too big to fail was what they’d said about the Titanic too. 

No one knows how many lives are going to suffer from this better than he does. The first day he’d tried to carry on, to run errands in town, but watching all those people, all these average, middle-class, striving Americans walking around with no understanding of what’s about to happen, what has happened, what it will mean for them for the next ten, twenty years. This isn’t a problem that can be solved. It’s only the beginning. And he’s so sorry. He tried to stop it.

No one calls and he doesn’t call anyone. _I told you so_ ’s are cheap and wouldn’t unknot his stomach anyway.

*

The house is uncharacteristically quiet during the week Castiel considers giving up. It aches in the spring winds as old houses do but doesn’t play tricks with the electricity or open doors on its own. Castiel notices without really being aware. 

Instead he thinks about how he should be saving his money, not dumping it into empty equity. He’s known that all along, of course, but the consequences are real now. His investment in his house traps him here. There will be no flipping the property. There will be no selling, period. 

He stares blankly out the kitchen window, seeing his future stretch before him flat and fixed as the Kansas horizon and isn’t sure he wants the view. 

The toy army man sits on the countertop nearby, pointing his gun at the toaster. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, soldier.” 

Lacking the focus to work on small, detailed projects, Castiel takes to clearing away big things, organizing what was left in the boxes, breaking down the boxes, slowly resigning himself to his fate.

As a pretense of productivity one morning, he begins shoving around furniture, telling himself he’s determining the floor plan for after he refinishes the hardwood. Plus, it keeps him from watching the news. 

He settles on an arrangement just before noon. Repositioning the couch in the center of the room divides the space in two nicely. Situating his desk toward the front of the house leaves the floor space open in front of the bay window, while the back half of the room, just beyond the window and the staircase, becomes the lounge area. The radio console anchors the couch, functioning as a sofa table along its back, while the television now sits along the wall where the radio had been. It feels homier this way, less like a railcar. 

It’s accomplishment enough to boost his spirits and his appetite. His kitchen cupboards are empty though, and the fridge is in similar shape. Not allowing himself to stall out, he grabs his keys, stuffs his feet in shoes, and heads out the door. He’s had too many days inside, too much wallowing. He’s here. And that’s okay. And he’ll be okay. Things may be falling apart back East, but they are falling into place here. 

This is what starting over looks like, he thinks as he jogs down the porch steps to the car. 

*

But an hour later, when he wrestles armloads of groceries up the steps and through the front door, he finds that he has to start over after all.

The living room is a disaster.

Castiel lowers the grocery bags as carefully as he can with shaky arms and steps over them into the room. The furniture is scattered out of its arrangement. The couch has been shoved aside, rucking up the area rug along the way, and the TV stand looks as though it’s been yanked straight away from the wall, its plug still trailing. The radio console is all the way back across the room, exactly where it had started. 

Where, apparently, it belongs.

Castiel’s skin prickles all over, cooler than the afternoon sun should allow. He crosses his arms, digging his fists into the crooks of his elbows to keep from shaking, to keep calm, and surveys the mess again. 

An intruder wouldn’t come this far out just to rearrange his furniture. A thief would’ve taken the television, not just moved it. He can’t even suspect Meg; her humor is twisted, but she wouldn’t manufacture evidence toward her cause, and she wouldn’t know where the radio had been, or the arbitrary hour he finally chose to leave the house. Nothing’s broken, he notes. It’s all just . . . not where he left it.

And then he remembers every tool that ever turned up somewhere he was sure he hadn’t left it, every just-out-of-reach screwdriver, every inches-from-where-he’d-thought-it’d-been coffee cup, every missing piece of hardware or book, every mysteriously open door. 

There’s only one option, and for the first time it seems the most logical one. 

Haunted. His house is haunted. 

Castiel nods, numb, trying to let the truth sink in. “Right.” He reaches into his back pocket and dials Meg. 

“Heya handsome,” she purrs after half a ring. “Long time no—” 

“It’s here.” Castiel darts a look over his shoulder and paces quickly out of the living room, pitching his voice low—ridiculous and paranoid but he can’t help it. “You were right. I’ve seen it. Sort of. I have evidence.” 

“Evidence of what?” Meg’s voice is still all mirth and for the first time it makes Castiel scowl. This is serious. 

“Of a haunting,” he whispers angrily as he peeks into the kitchen, relieved to see everything’s just as it should be in there.

The second of silence on the other end means Meg’s gotten the message, but of course what she says—chiding—is “Oh but, honey, there’s no such thing.”

“Then did you rearrange my living room furniture while I was out? Or am I just imagining that my couch moved itself across the room?” Castiel closes his eyes for a second and wonders whether, if he sneaks a look around the staircase into the living room, he’ll find that to be true. He mounts the stairs instead.

Meg gasps. “Oh. Yeah, okay. You’ve got some paranormal something going on there.” 

“As I said,” Castiel hisses.

Meg ignores his annoyance. “Wow. This is actually exciting.”

“It’s disturbing,” he mutters. He frowns as he peers down the upstairs hall. He’s not sure what he expects to find, but checking the whole house feels like the thing to do.

“I knew he was there,” she says, sounding almost smitten, and that stops Castiel short.

“‘He’ who? You know my ghost?” The thought twists his insides. Of course. She’d seemed so certain about the haunting all along.

“No! No, I don’t know him. Believe me, okay? I don’t know who your mystery man is—or was.” She snickers, then clears her throat. “But look, I think I saw him. A long time ago.”

“You what? You saw him? Meg, you could’ve told me my house was haunted!” Castiel shouts, forgetting ghost-seeking stealth mode. 

“I _did,_ Clarence.” 

But her rebuttal is almost drowned out by a laugh. An honest-to-goodness belly laugh. Only without a belly—or, rather, a source. Castiel flinches as it reverberates around him.

“He’s here,” he whispers into the phone.

“Of course he is. He’s dead, where else would he go?” 

“No, no, didn’t you hear that? He laughed. I said the house is haunted and he laughed.” Panic is an extremely unpleasant feeling, Castiel thinks as he thunders back down the stairs. He flees past the abandoned groceries, across the porch, down the steps, and out into the front yard, anchoring himself against the maple. He’s trembling all the way down to the soles of his feet.

“Wait, he’s interacting with you? This is incredible!”

“This is not incredible,” Castiel pants, bending over a second to catch his breath. “This is my house. I need to live here.”

“Is this the first time he’s done anything like this?”

“Well, no . . .” He can almost hear Meg’s judgmental eyebrows raise. “I thought I was misplacing tools, but now I— I suspect he’s been moving them. And there was that time—a few times?—all the doors in the house opened. And occasionally the television comes on in the middle of the night.” 

“He— They— It what?” 

“It’s usually to some low-budget late-night horror movie or the sports network. Definitely not the channel it was on when I shut it off,” Castiel confesses in a rush. He tells her about that first time, while he’s on a roll. “I thought maybe it was just the electricity,” he finishes weakly. 

He waits for Meg’s outrage but instead she asks, dangerously calm, “What’s wrong with your electricity, Clarence?”

“It’s . . . sporadic? Sometimes outlets work, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the lights flicker.” 

“BECAUSE YOUR HOUSE IS FUCKING HAUNTED,” Meg screeches and Castiel jerks the phone away from his head.

He rolls his eyes and settles the phone back against his ear and his arms across his chest. “Well, yes, I recognize that now.”

Meg huffs.

“Fine. So what’s your plan?” 

Castiel winces, remembering his melting groceries. And he never did eat lunch. “I think I called to ask you what I should do.” 

“Always knew you were a smart cookie, Clarence. Alright, you gotta figure out what or who this thing is if you want to get rid of it. You need a ouija board. Do you have a ouija board?”

“I . . . The board game? No. Those things are superstitious nonsense, why would I need a ouija board?”

Meg answers that with a beat of sarcastic silence followed by a not-asking “Really.”

Castiel’s forehead lands against his palm as he sighs. “Okay, point taken. Tell me what to do.”

* 

Castiel does, eventually, go back into the house. 

He does put away his groceries. 

And then he leaves and spends the night on Meg’s couch. 

* 

He doesn’t return until late afternoon the next day. Meg had said something about dusk and a thinner boundary between worlds. Honestly, though, he’d only been willing to entertain maybe a fifth of what she’d shared with him as plausible, even less as serious advice. But she meant well, and he clearly has some kind of issue that needs to be addressed if he would like to continue living in this house. Which, he’s found, he does. 

Bitter as he is over Angelus’s crash and what it means for the future, he doesn’t regret his move to Kansas or what the house has taught him so far. And after an evening away, he’d found himself thinking about going home and surprised by how the phrase seemed only to apply to this place, here. 

So Castiel makes himself at home. He tugs the area rug flat, drags the couch back into place, sets up the TV again, and nestles the radio where he wants it. Killing time, he adds some throw pillows he’d bought while out and arranges the potted plants Meg had given him as a housewarming gift in the nook of the bay window. Someday he’ll hang art on the walls, maybe a nice big mirror. But for now, for his purposes tonight, this is enough to reclaim the space as his.

A couple seconds of rustling through the bags and he pulls out his final purchase—OUIJA. He settles cross-legged on the living room floor and pierces the plastic wrapping with a thumb, discarding it behind him. Meg had described the general principles to him, but he gives the instructions a cursory once-over, then lays open the board in front of him. 

Placing his fingers on the planchette, he closes his eyes and relaxes, trying to open himself to the house’s energies, whatever that means. Maybe Meg’s directions hadn’t been so clear after all. Or maybe he’s just impatient. 

He shuffles his shoulders, adjusts his posture. He takes a deep breath and—

“Dude!” 

Castiel’s eyes fly open. 

“Dude!” the voice repeats and it takes Castiel a few seconds to believe what he’s seeing. He stares, heart thumping in his throat.

There’s a young man standing across the room. He’s wearing a well-worn henley, jeans that’ve seen better days, a faded green shirt tied around his hips, and heavy boots. His expression is stormy. And he’s semi-transparent. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

Castiel blinks blankly “I—”

“Do you want this place crawling with demons? I don’t know about you, but I’m good without that, thanks. Now put that damn thing away. You want to talk? Talk.” 

Castiel gapes. “You’re the—”

“Ghost?” The figure crosses his arms at his chest and leans his weight back on one hip. Except he doesn’t really have weight, does he? “Yeah, that’s me. One hundred percent dead and haunting you.” He couples a cursory wave with a sardonic smile, all without uncrossing his arms. “Howdy.”

Castiel isn’t sure what he expected. He’d guessed the ghost was male from the few husky chuckles and the late-night sports network watching, but whatever else he’d imagined was not this. Ghosts in the popular imagination are always in Victorian-era sleep shirts or uniforms from wars long over. They don’t dress like grunge rock rejects. 

And they’re not, well, handsome.

“Lemme guess. You were expecting someone older.”

Castiel nods. He realizes his mouth is still open but he can’t quite get himself to close it. Or move at all, really. 

“Yeah, everybody thinks it’s all Dickens. But a freaking lot of people have died since like eighteen-whatever. We can’t all be two hundred years old.” The ghost shrugs (shrugs!). “So you gonna put that away, or what?” He nods at the ouija board. “Because leaving a line open is almost as dumb as calling everybody in to dinner time.”

That’s what finally does it. Castiel jerks his fingers off the planchette as though he just realized it has teeth. “Yeah. Yes. I apologize. I didn’t realize— I didn’t know the risk was— I wasn’t trying to—” His fingers feel thick and clumsy as he scrapes the board back into the box, not quite able to get the lid on correctly.

The ghost visibly relaxes once it’s put away. 

The ghost. Relaxes. 

Right. 

“Seen it happen before, you know. Years ago. Some teenagers thought it’d be fun—call me up, get me to say hi to dear, dead grandma, you know the deal. Didn’t go down like that, though. Those dark sonsabitches are like gum stuck to your shoe. Friggin’ impossible to get rid of. Big huge mess. Poor girl.”

Castiel had drawn up a whole list with Meg of simple, reasonable, very basic questions he’d intended to ask the ghost, but all he can think to ask now is “You’ve killed demons?” 

“Demons, dark spirits. I ain’t saying it’s easy, but a man’s got a right to protect his property.” 

He hasn’t moved, the ghost. He’s standing in the exact spot he appeared, in front of the bay window. There’s a ray of evening sunlight piercing right through his right hip and Castiel can’t stop staring at the pool of light shining uninterrupted on the rug. He gets to his feet, finally, and takes a few steps toward the apparition. 

“I’m Castiel,” he says, “It’s, um, nice to meet you, at last.”

The ghost looks at his proffered hand and snorts. Castiel pulls it back, feeling his face color. “Yeah, I know. Castiel Novak.” He tosses his head toward the desk in the opposite corner. “Read your mail.” 

“Right.” Castiel nods as though that’s the most logical answer—though that might be the most logical thing he’s heard in the last five minutes. 

“I’m Dean Winchester. You’re in my house.” 

After everything—the weeks of labor, the mountains of home refurbishment research, the electrician and the window contractor and the cable guy, the missing tools and the plumbing and stripping all that infernal wallpaper—that hits a nerve. Castiel’s defensive instincts flare and his eyes narrow. “It’s my house. You’re dead.” 

“Ouch,” the ghost— _Dean_ —pouts. “Don’t rub it in.”

“Sorry,” Castiel says automatically, deflating, and Dean laughs. His eyes crinkle and a wide smile breaks across his face. He’s not so much backlit as a pale illumination all on his own, Castiel observes. 

“It’s cool, man. It’s not like I don’t know.” 

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

Castiel has no idea what to say next. The appropriate thing, were Dean a regular guest, would be to invite him to stay for coffee, or dinner. But those aren’t exactly feasible options in this situation. He defaults back to one of the questions on his list. “Why did you move my furniture?” 

The smile wipes from Dean’s face and he aims a finger gun at the back wall. “Radio goes over there.” 

Castiel frowns. That rationale isn’t exactly rational. “I moved the china hutch in the dining room last week and you haven’t moved it back.” 

When Dean shrugs the light filtering into the room doesn’t flicker. He’s here but he’s also not. Castiel sees him—his hair is sandy blond, his henley is gray, his boots are black. He’s _here_ , but the only shadows on the floor are from the window panes. “You’re painting. I’m not an asshole. Just put it back where you got it when you’re done.” 

“But you are kind of an asshole,” Castiel insists. 

This makes Dean smirk. “Oh?” 

“You tried to scare me out of my house!” Castiel bursts, throwing his arms wide. Unbelievable, this man. Ghost. Entity. Whatever. He glowers and grits his teeth. 

“Hey, it’s my house. You’re just living in it,” Dean counters. “And anyway, if I’d tried to scare you off, you’d be gone by now. Trust me. I’ve frightened off my share of folks.” 

First of all, Castiel thinks, that’s not true. He purchased this house. By law, it’s his. Whatever happened in the past, the property had obviously been transferred out of Dean’s possession. The rights of the dead have no bearing here. And second of all—

“So why didn’t you? If you could have been rid of me, why didn’t you try?” 

Dean’s face goes a careful kind of blank, his shoulders stiffen. “I screwed with you,” he points out. 

After all his years around blowhard brokers, Castiel knows cornered-and-clamming-up when he sees it. Confidence curls the corners of his mouth. “Yes, but you said yourself that you didn’t try to ‘scare me off.’ Why am I allowed to stay if others weren’t?” 

Dean shifts and reshuffles, his eyes darting past Castiel. “Look, you’re crap at repairs but the old place needs ’em. So keep up the mediocre work. And remember, radio goes there,” he points. “And keep that piece of crap closed, okay?” He jerks his chin at the box on the floor. “Don’t make me come back to kick your ass.” 

And with that, he disappears.

It should be more unsettling, the disappearing. Dean was visible, and then he wasn’t. No slow fade, no mystical dissolve. But although it was abrupt, it wasn’t scary. Castiel wouldn’t characterize anything about Dean as scary. In fact, compared to what he’s been told about paranormal encounters that seemed . . . remarkably normal. 

Sure, it’s not every day one converses with a ghost. But it’s difficult to maintain an appropriate amount of awe when the ghost picks an argument with you. A surprise smile overtakes Castiel just then and he even laughs, a quick shaky burst. So maybe he is in shock, or maybe it’s that in just one conversation he got back a little of his own with Mr. Dean “Dead-and-Haunting-You” Winchester. 

Castiel turns in a circle where he stands, hands on hips, somehow expecting the room—the world—to look a little different, knowing what he knows now. It doesn’t. 

He does think he sees a way to compromise with Dean on furniture arrangement, though. After all, he doesn’t want to have to drag his furniture back into place every time he wants to watch television. 

Half an hour later, Castiel has maintained his floor plan and the radio is back where it belongs. As an afterthought, he fishes behind the console for the cord and plugs it back into the wall. When the radio flips itself on and the classic rock station kicks up the second he steps back, Castiel rolls his eyes. He won’t give Dean the satisfaction of acknowledging it out loud, but he agrees it would’ve been a shame to leave the thing unplugged and never use it. 

Humming along to The Who, he crouches down and fiddles with the OUIJA box until the lid sits properly, then stands, staring for a moment at the box in hands. It’s not returnable now, with the plastic off, and apparently it’s dangerous enough that it shouldn’t be sold as a toy anyway. He stuffs the game box on the top shelf of the closet beneath the stairs and decides not to think about it again. 

It’s pretty clear he won’t be needing it.


	4. Chapter 4

The ghost— _Dean_ —doesn’t reappear the next day, or the one after. All signs point to being alone, but Castiel moves a little more carefully through the house anyway. 

He doesn’t quite feel watched, just a little more aware, like knowing someone has installed cameras for a reality TV show but not knowing when they may be recording. Angelus had cameras all over its building, of course, so living in semi-surveillance isn’t unfamiliar, and it’s just as true now as it had been then that Castiel has nothing to hide.

One thing he’s not is scared. Dean was a surprise and he was stern, but he wasn’t horror-movie scary. It’s not a headless horseman or stripe-suited Beetlejuice or green ball of ectoplasm with too-human teeth haunting him. It’s a fairly attractive young man with a chip on his shoulder. If anything, Castiel’s relieved—at least his memory isn’t Swiss cheese. 

Nothing really changes about his routine. He gets up as usual, gets dressed as usual, drinks his coffee and gets to work as usual. What’s different now is that Castiel is curious. 

Questions about Dean stream through Castiel’s brain like a news ticker across the bottom of a CNN broadcast. When did he die? How did he die? Did he die here, in the house? Is that why he stays? Or can he leave any time? What did he mean about protecting his property? What’s death like? Does everyone become a ghost? Surely not or the world would be overcrowded and with them and sightings wouldn’t be rare—right? So then what’s the afterlife? Dean appears to have the free will (can ghosts truly have free will?) to choose how and when to haunt, but Meg had told him about spirits or energies that are trapped repeating moments or behaviors. Why is Dean different? 

He expresses exactly none of these thoughts out loud. 

And even though Dean is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to Castiel, he doesn’t tell Meg about him. He’s not sure why, but when he stepped out into the front yard to call her the next morning—and immediately wondered about Dean’s reach and whether he can appear outside the house—Castiel had found himself reporting that he hadn’t gotten results using the ouija board (because he hadn’t, technically) but activity had died down and he’s feeling safer. 

Based on the fact that she’s now calling him for the third day in a row, he doesn’t think she’s buying it. He accepts the call and pinches the phone between his ear and shoulder, continuing to fiddle with his screwdriver and new outlet covers.

“Hello, Meg.”

“Still alive, then. Anything new?”

“Nothing. I told you, I’m fine. I’m beginning to believe I imagined it all.” Truly. The lack of activity now highlights just how much activity he’d been ignoring before. The house creaks less, no doors or cupboards are mysteriously open, the TV hasn’t turned itself on.

“No way. You were seriously scared. And I love you, Clarence, but you don’t have that much imagination.”

At the moment he’s trying to visualize the short, blunt screw of this outlet cover finding the hole it’s supposed to go in and failing even at that, so he admits she has a point. “Regardless, you don’t have to worry. The situation seems to be back to normal.” 

“Alright, fine. But call me if shit gets weird again. And next time you’re downtown I have some stuff for you. I found a picture of Mary Campbell—her folks built the house. Seems she showed a prize pony at the Douglas County Fair. I don’t know about the pony, but she’s pretty. And I think I read once that she died young. Are you sure your ghost isn’t a girl?”

And there’s another question: how did a Dean Winchester come to live in ‘the Campbell place’?

“I’m sure. If there is one, I mean. I’ll be there tomorrow.” 

“You better,” Meg replies and hangs up. 

Castiel relaxes his shoulder and lets the phone clatter to the floor. It feels like the screw threads have finally caught and he scrambles to tighten the cover into place. He pumps a triumphant fist when cover stays put. 

He knows Meg would believe him if he told her about Dean. She’d revel in being right, in fact. But the whole truth of a denim-clad, dead young man standing in his living room was somehow too much to want to explain. Castiel wants to know more before he tries. 

And for that, Dean needs to materialize again. 

*

So he carries on the next few days as he had before. Before the Angelus crash, that is. 

He finishes painting the dining room and huffs and puffs the china hutch back where Dean had wanted it, as requested. The army man returns not to the drawer but to a shelf where he can sight out the glass into the room. And this time Castiel doesn’t think he’s imagining it when sometimes the little figure is pointed in a new direction, like toward the kitchen when just yesterday he was facing the front window. Now it’s confirmation he’s not crazy and Dean really is around somewhere. 

It’s sort of a natural progression, then, that he begins talking to Dean the way he used to chat at the soldier.

Now when the wrench he’s momentarily set down shifts just out of reach or when he hears the TV turn back on while he’s upstairs brushing his teeth before bed, he doesn’t question his memory or his hearing. Now he says, “Very funny, Dean,” and “Goodnight, Dean.”

His new midday hobby is experimenting with making different kinds of sandwiches for lunch. At Angelus he had typically worked through lunch or eaten out, so constructing an everyman afternoon meal has a kind of charm.

Bologna had seemed novel at first, but that wore off quickly. Ham proved boring—he needed a lot of mustard to make it interesting. Honey turkey was tasty when paired with a sharp cheddar. At the moment he’s low on ingredient options.

He’s standing in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open contemplating giving grilled cheese another try when a voice behind him says, “Bacon.”

Startled, Castiel spins and fridge door slams. “What?”

“Bacon,” says no one visible, which must mean it’s Dean. Castiel swallows his heart beat.

“Are you suggesting a BLT? I’m out of lettuce and I don’t like tomatoes anyway.” Castiel realizes he’s talking louder than usual, the way Americans do when trying to communicate with someone who speaks a language other than English. He doesn’t know where to direct his comments.

“I’m suggesting peanut butter and bacon.” 

“What? That’s disgusting.” 

“You’re wrong. Try it.” 

Castiel scowls around his empty kitchen, but there’s no sign of a ghostly presence. He hesitates to move. It’s one thing to be generally aware you might be under surveillance; it’s another for the camera to talk to you. 

“This is too unsettling. If you’re going to be here, _be_ here.”

He hears an annoyed sigh, but then Dean comes into focus with his hand around the refrigerator door. He yanks it open and digs a pack of bacon Castiel had forgotten about out of a drawer. 

“You fry this up extra crispy. Like, ’til even the fat is crunchy. Then you toast up some bread. None of that froo-froo multigrain stuff. Plain ol’ white bread.” Dean’s moved to the bread drawer, which opens on its own but Dean reaches in to pull out the remaining half loaf of white and plops it next to the bacon on the counter. “And then you slather on the peanut butter. You don’t need to go crunchy for this. The bacon takes care of that for you.” The cupboard door above the toaster opens and Dean saunters over to take out the peanut butter. “I knew a kid who liked bananas on it, but that’s for sissies. Stick with the essentials.” He adds the jar to the bacon and bread and crosses his arms. 

Castiel gives the ingredients a dubious glare. “Is this a trick?” It sounds a bit like something Gabriel would have baited him into trying. 

“No trick.” Dean holds up his hands as though honesty is the same thing as being unarmed. “Legit recommendation.” 

“Okay,” Castiel nods. “I’ll take you word for it.”

“Good.” 

“Good.” Castiel cringes at his own lameness. 

Dean rolls his eyes then isn’t there anymore. 

And the thing is, he’s right. Castiel follows instructions and ends up with a sweet and salty sandwich that makes his mouth water for more. 

*

Days later, after spending an entire day indoors operating a rented floor sander, Castiel wants nothing more than to breathe air without sawdust in it and bask in silence. He’d bought a six pack of Shiner on a whim while in town to pick up the sander—it seemed the appropriately masculine thing to do—and has never been more glad of an impulse buy than he is in that moment, seated on the steps of his porch, dangling the cool neck of the bottle from his fingers. 

The warm, waning light of the day blazes across the fields around the house and Castiel soaks it in, eyes closed. It’s not actually silent out here the way he’d expected it to be. The fields surrounding the house have been coming alive as spring has deepened toward summer and the chirp of crickets and the sleepy evening titter of birds fill the air. It’s a welcome contrast to the relentless drone of the sander. And he can hardly remember when his life featured only a soundtrack of sterile HVAC hum and city traffic. 

“Nice night,” says a voice from above him, and Castiel almost drops his beer. He opens his eyes to find Dean leaning against the railing to his left. He’s in the same henley and jeans but wearing his green shirt this time, sleeves rolled to the elbow. 

The ticker-tape of ghost-related questions kickstarts in Castiel’s mind again, but just because Dean seems to have an impolite streak doesn’t mean Castiel should forget his manners. “Hello, Dean,” he greets, carefully neutral. 

“Best view in the world, right here,” Dean says, eyes on the pink and orange horizon, and Castiel remembers Zachariah saying the exact same sentence from the top floor of Angelus, overlooking Manhattan. 

“I’m learning to appreciate it,” Castiel replies, because he is. What he wants to ask is whether Dean has had much for comparison. Did he live and die in Kansas? Did he ever exist anywhere else? 

Dean peels his attention away from the sunset and down to Castiel. “Yeah, you strike me as a city slicker. New York, right?” 

“Most recently, yes.” Castiel sips his beer and doesn’t miss Dean’s intense interest in his swallow. Does he miss beer? Did he used to sit here, as Castiel is now?

A cricket-filled few beats go by before Castiel realizes the way Dean has not-so-subtly shifted position and cleared his throat a couple times are little demands for attention. Maybe even a kind of nervousness. He cocks his head and considers Dean more directly. 

It’s all the invitation Dean needs. “So those Wall Street bigwigs that keep making the news—you worked for them?”

Castiel smiles a little. Apparently Dean has as many questions about Castiel as Castiel has about Dean. “Yes, I did. It . . . didn’t end well.”

Dean’s eyebrows go up. “They fired you? For what?” 

“Telling them they were outside an acceptable margin of risk and could potentially crash the market.”

“But . . .” Dean scratches the back of his neck, “Look, I’m no economics whizkid but according to those news broadcasts you can’t stop watching, that’s what happened, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And they fired you before that happened, for warning them.”

“Yes.”

“Huh. What dicks.”

Castiel huffs a surprised laugh. “Yes.” 

“So, then what? How’d you end up here?” 

“I threw a dart at a map.” 

“Dude. You? You did not.”

“I did.” Castiel shrugs and takes another drink of his beer. Dean pushes off from the railing and takes a seat on the steps beside Castiel, triggering another series of questions: If Dean is non-corporeal, how does he move as though he has weight? How does he sit on the stairs instead of sinking through them? “Can I ask you something?” he ventures.

“Shoot,” Dean says, leaning back on his elbows and kicking his legs out.

“Have you always been here?”

“Always always, or always-since-I’ve-been-dead always?” 

“Both.”

“No and yes. I grew up here, in this house, but I did a tour in ’Nam. Came back just before the States pulled out altogether. Been here ever since.” 

The toy soldier, Castiel thinks. It had probably been Dean’s, and Dean himself had been a soldier. “What service?”

“Marines.”

“Ah.” Castiel raises his bottle in toast, “Semper fi.”

Dean’s smile is sadder than Castiel expected. “Something like that.” 

The sun sinks out of sight, leaving just a ribbon of light along the western edge of sky, and Castiel feels its warmth slide out of the air. He takes his final sip of beer but is reluctant to go inside while Dean seems content to stay. _How did you survive a war and still die young?_ he wants to ask, but doesn’t.

Dean lolls his head to the side and sizes up Castiel with a squint. “You know, I like you better now.” 

Castiel skin prickles like goosebumps, and he doesn’t think it’s just the temperature change. “‘Now’? As compared to what?” 

“When you first showed up. You looked like such a stick in the mud—which makes sense considering you came from, you know, Doucheland. But you’re not. Not really. You just had to learn to relax.” 

Castiel chooses not to take offense at _Doucheland_ and instead capitalize on the perfect opening to ask about Dean’s haunting habits. “So you were here? Since the beginning, I mean.”

“’Course.” 

“So even when you’re not here, you’re still . . . around?” He isn’t sure that makes sense, but Dean seems to understand. 

“Takes more energy to show up, especially in daytime,” and Castiel notices that, indeed, Dean is less see-through now that the light has waned. “It’s easier to move stuff—not so much a sustained effort, if you see what I mean. But yeah, I’m around.” He pauses for a second, suddenly a little awkward. “I mean, I’m not dogging your steps or watching you sleep or anything weird. I’m just, you know . . .”

“Around,” Castiel repeats and Dean nods. 

“Yeah.” 

They share a brief smile before bouncing their attention away from each other. 

It’s juvenile, this flutter of new-friendship excitement in Castiel’s chest, but not unwelcome.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, and this time it’s Dean who is caught off guard. 

“For what? Haunting you?” 

“Liking me,” Castiel clarifies and Dean laughs. 

“Don’t make it weird or anything, Cas.” 

Castiel just shrugs. “I get the impression your good opinion is difficult to obtain. I appreciate that I’ve secured it.” 

Dean snorts. “Dude, sometimes I think you’re the one who’s a hundred years old.” 

Castiel accepts that silently. It’s not the first time he’s been teased for being born in the wrong era, but sincerity is easier when concealed in politeness. He quickly calculates the risk of embarrassment—his and Dean’s—and decides to take a chance on direct honesty. “I like you too.” 

The smile that lights Dean’s face warms the night air between them. 

*

_The truck rumbles to a stop along the shoulder of the dirt road out front, and from here everything about the house looks the same as Dean knew it would—the cockeyed porch steps, the big tree overhanging the yard, the curtains slipping in and out of an open upstairs window in the breeze. But there’s something different now, and it’s not just Bobby’s truck parked out front next to Dad’s Chevy. It’s the quiet maybe. No, not the quiet. The stillness. Like pulling up next to a snapshot._

_Dean hops from the cab of the pickup and grabs his pack from the bed. “Thanks, Rufus,” he says through the window as he shuts the door firm._

_Rufus touches the brim of his hat in a half salute, “Welcome home, soldier. For what that’s worth.”_

_“Yeah. Thanks.” Dean pats the window ledge and pushes back, sending Rufus on his way._

_It_ is _quiet here, though, Dean thinks as he humps his pack one last time, across the yard and up the porch steps. Not that it’s hard to be quieter than the_ whuckwhuckwhuck _of choppers overflying the jungle or the blast of too-close landmine, or even a camp full of combat-high Marines sweating out downtime. He’ll take wheat fields over rice paddies any day._

_“H’lo?” Dean calls, guiding his duffle through the door first. It hits the floor with a husky thud as Dean scrapes off his uniform cap and looks around. Nothing’s changed inside either. But then, of course it didn’t. No reason Dad would’ve taken up redecorating in the last three years seeing as he hasn’t moved anything an inch since Mom died._

_Only took him seventeen years to follow her._

_He wanders into the living room, past the stacks of old magazines stuffed next to the sofa and the rest of the dust-covered clutter. Somebody must’ve cleared up the empties, for appearances. He’s tracing two fingers over the dials on Mom’s radio in the living room, wondering whether he could jigger it back into working condition—he’d done his share of pinch repairs on truck radios in the field—when the sound of footsteps behind him makes him spin._

_“Dean.” It’s Bobby, gruff and squat in his plaid and coveralls as always. He pulls Dean into a hug, tight and full of back claps. “It’s good to see you boy,” he says, a little extra emotion rasping in there._

_“You too,” Dean says and means it. “Good to be home.” Harder to feel the truth in that one. “Sam around?”_

_The corners of Bobby’s mouth turn down as he points a finger up at the ceiling. “Hasn’t been much of anywhere else.”_

_“Right. Yeah. Makes sense,” Dean nods. He swallows against the tensing of his throat. “Look, you know I—”_

_“I know,” Bobby cuts in. “I know you tried. Other side of the world’s a pretty hard to place to get home from. We tried to wait on it, but . . . well. It was a good service. Folks from town made a showing. Kate Milligan brought some flowers. Real nice. The way it was for your ma.”_

_Dean nods again. He barely remembers his mother’s funeral, but he knows that was the day John Winchester had really died. The ceremony Dean had missed by just a couple days was only an internment of his body. “He’s pretty P.O.’d though, huh?” he asks, tossing a nod toward the ceiling._

_“He’ll come ’round,” Bobby says, which amounts to a yes. Dean sighs and starts for the stairs, but Bobby stops him with a hand on his arm. “Before you go rushing into that brushfire, you gotta hear a couple things first.”_

_Dean’s mouth flattens into Marine default, ready to receive orders, and he ducks his head for Bobby to continue. Instead Bobby shuffles toward the dining room and jerks his head for Dean to follow. The table is covered in crap like it always is—unopened envelopes, math tests and history essays with A+’s on them, pieces of school shop projects or maybe one of Dad’s temporary hobbies. There’s even one of Dean’s old army men, stock to his shoulder and leaning into his shot, perched atop a stack of books. He didn’t know Sam’d kept any of those._

_“First thing first, the house is yours. Mary’s folks left it to her, she left it to your daddy, and he left it to you. Property tax’s gonna be an issue, but the house is free and clear. Maybe rent the land for farming. Rufus might take you up on that. But,” Bobby makes sure he’s got Dean’s eye, “you got a home, Dean. You and Sam.”_

_This time Dean’s throat collapses. He nods._

_“Second thing second, your daddy said you’d been working in the mechanic section some, fixing up trucks over there. That right?”_

_“Ye—” Dean coughs. “Yes, sir. That’s right.”_

_“Then you got a job at my place if you want one.” Bobby makes it sound optional, but Dean hears the implied_ show up Monday and on time _, and he’s grateful for it._

_“Last thing, Dean.” Bobby’s face twists up as he puts a hard thought into harder words, lips lost for a moment under his beard. “You got a lot ahead of you, son, so don’t always be looking back. Sometimes people go, and you got to let them.”_

_Dean can’t think of a thing to say around the rock in his throat other than “Okay.” He lets himself be scraped into another back-pounding hug, the smell of Bobby’s musty flannel and engine grease almost enough of a comfort to make him crack. Bobby lets go just before the tears hit, though, and Dean is dismissed so Bobby can muddle through what to do about dinner. He mutters something about funeral pies as he makes his way into the kitchen as Dean returns to the stairs and pauses at the bottom to peer up there, wondering what Sam’s up to and steeling himself for the impending explosion that’s bound to rival anything the VC threw at him._

_Turns out Sam is flat on his bed, nose stuck in a book he holds above his face. The rapid rise and fall of Sam’s chest probably means he’s not actually reading it though. Knowing Sam—and, God, Dean hopes he still knows Sam, can’t imagine not knowing every stinking thing about his baby brother—more likely he’d been trying to eavesdrop on Bobby and had gone to ground when Dean had hit the stairs. Dean crosses his arms and leans against the door jamb, careful not to come in without invitation, as fourteen-year-old Sam had been insistent about just before Dean took off for boot camp. Dean had known why, of course, and had razzed Sam about it until he got all red-faced and defensive anyway—that’s what big brothers were for._

_“Heya Sammy,” he says, finding a smile at the memory._

_The book drops to Sam’s chest to reveal a pinch-lipped frown and pointy glare._

_“What, no hello?” Dean presses the guilt button with a pout but all it gets him is an eye roll before Sam lifts his book again._

_“Hey,” Dean barks, a perfect echo of Dad, and Sam startles. “On your feet and come greet your goddamn brother.”_

_“Fine,” Sam sneers, sitting up. He snaps the book shut and slaps it on the bed as he stands, crosses the room in two strides, and sticks out his hand for Dean to shake. “Welcome home.”_

_Dean’s face screws up with annoyance. “Don’t gimme that.” He smacks Sam’s hand away and drags him into a hug by the shoulder of his shirt. Unlike last time they did this, Sam’s chin reaches above Dean’s shoulder. Fucking seventeen and already outgrowing him. “Missed you, Sammy,” Dean lets himself say, even if it is half whispered and with his eyes closed._

_Sam struggles out of Dean’s embrace, practically shaking off the hug like a dog does water. “Yeah, so much you rushed right back.”_

_It’s a low blow, but Dean expected a fight. He swallows back his own smart remark and the Marine impulse to order Sam into compliance—like he’d just done, like Dad always did—and sighs deep instead. “I tried, Sam. I did try.”_

_Getting him out had been a mess. The extraction order came, but Dean was up to his ass in jungle muck and booby traps, trying to get his convoy from point A to point B without anybody dying too much—always harder than it looked._

_How to explain to Sam how much he hated climbing into that chopper, abandoning his unit? And at the same time how fucking relieved he was to get out of that jungle? What kind of ungrateful son is relieved his dad has died?_

_“Tried doesn’t count. You weren’t here,” Sam glares. “He loved you most”—tears hit Sam’s eyes—”and you weren’t even here.”_

_“Sammy, no. It’s not like that.” Dean steps into the room, pleading, but Sam takes a step back, clenching his fists._

_“I’m glad he’s gone!” Sam says, voice loud but not strong._

_“Hey,” Dean fires back, “Don’t talk that way about your dad. He did everything he could for you.” He hears John in his voice again and is simultaneously sick knowing that he’s such a fucking hypocrite. He’s glad Dad is gone too. It got Dean out of the jungle. It means no more collecting him from a barstool. It means more money saved for Sam’s college fund. “Have some respect.” Dean might as well be saying it to himself._

_“He didn’t do anything but find the bottom of a bottle,” Sam sneers._

_Dean shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. He dials back his anger and aims his voice lower. “He kept this house, kept us going. I know you two didn’t always see eye to eye but—”_

_“You weren’t here! You don’t know, okay?” Sam’s voice cracks and he’s not fighting the tears anymore. “You were gone for three years. You_ left _and he— and now—”_

_Dean crushes Sam in a hug, and his brother crumples, just a scared kid again. Not so grown after all. “I know, Sammy, I know. But I’m back now, okay? I’m back and I’m never gonna leave you.”_

_Sometimes people go, Bobby’d said, but Dean’s not regular people. Sam’s been left too many times over. Dean’s not going anywhere._

_Dean rests his cheek on Sammy’s head and squeezes tighter as he sobs. “Never again. I’m here. I’m home.”_

*

“This chick, she’s got long dark hair, big eyes. She’s pretty, you know? But I don’t know her. And she’s in my house saying, ‘Come with me, it’s time to go,’ and I’m like, ‘Lady, I’m not going anywhere with you,’ because why would I? I’m home. Then she says, and I remember she was so calm, so nice about it, ‘Dean, you’re dead. You can’t stay here anymore because you need to pass on’ and— No, no, no, don’t let it slip! Aw, c’mon, you almost had it.” 

Castiel glares down at Dean from his perch on the ladder. Dean’s commentary is as useless as it is constant. 

Deciding to add crown molding to the dining room seemed like an easy enough project, but now he’s spent two hours climbing up and down the ladder to measure and miter corners, dropping the tiny finishing nails, clocking his thumb with the hammer, listening to Dean prattle, and he’s about out of patience. He’s been tolerating Dean’s presence because his nonstop talking means Castiel is learning about haunting without having to ask questions, but for the most part it’s been “heroic” stories of Dean scaring children and frustrating housewives, with numerous asides to chide Castiel for not doing things right.

Working on the house may have actually been easier in the weeks before Dean appeared. It certainly was before Dean started providing narration. 

“Perhaps I’d be able to concentrate better without your distractions,” Castiel says as he snugs the cornice against its adjoining piece once more.

It’s the closest Castiel has come to telling Dean to shut the hell up. Honestly, he doesn’t have the heart to. It’s likely been decades since Dean regularly conversed with anyone.

Dean grins up at him in a way that’s both annoying and charming. “Nah. Bugging you is in the job description, or haven’t you been listening?”

Castiel rolls his eyes before carefully aiming hammer and nail, wishing for the umpteenth time he’d bothered to rent a nail gun. He makes contact with the nail head on the first strike and pounds until the molding is held fast. “It seems to me the repairs to _your house_ would get done faster if my tools didn’t go missing, or if I didn’t have to go into the basement to flip fuses back on three times a day.” He plucks the next nail from the box and aims again. 

“Hey, I haven’t messed with the electricity in a while. Because if I had, you’d find your missing shit.” 

Castiel frowns at that.

Dean leans against a nearby radiator. “So I tell this chick, ‘Yeah, no shit I’m dead.’ I mean, I’d noticed I was invisible, that was a pretty big hint . . .”

But Castiel decidedly isn’t listening now. He finishes tacking in the nail and climbs off the ladder, leaving the molding strip with a loose end.

Confused, Dean waves a hand between Castiel and a dangling strip of molding. “Hey, don’t quit now! You were on a roll there.” Castiel ignores him, turning left across from the kitchen and heading for the door to the basement. 

He’s not surprised when Dean follows. He is surprised by the clomp of Dean’s boots on the wooden steps behind him. It’s a lot of noise for a man that’s usually half transparent, especially since he’s still talking. “But she says it’s bad news if I stay, or some shit. Everyone gets just one chance to cross and this one’s mine.” 

Castiel pulls the string on the bare lightbulb that illuminates the basement and sure enough, over by the fuse box he finds two screwdrivers, his plumbing snake, a level, and several pencils. He sighs. Dean stops talking and grins. 

“Told ya.” 

Castiel gathers the items, tugs the string to turn the light off, and marches back up the steps. He closes the door on Dean, not that it matters. He’s already seen Dean pass through walls often enough to no longer be shocked by it.

Two weeks ago, Castiel would’ve found his tools downstairs and assumed he’d absent-mindedly left them the last time he’d come down to flip the breaker. He’d worry about his memory, attribute it to his anxiety about the economy crash and distractions over whether there were warrants out for his Angelus colleagues’ arrest, and try to forgive himself. Now that he’s met the actual culprit he’s much less forgiving. 

“You’re mad,” Dean unhelpfully observes as Castiel dumps the screwdrivers and level back in his tool box, plows past him to put the plumbing snake on the stairs to carry up later, and returns to the dining room. “Aww, don’t be mad. This is what we do.”

“No, it’s what you do,” Castiel grumbles, adjusting the ladder over a few feet before mounting it again.

“Right. Exactly.”

Maybe anger lends the focus Castiel needed, because he sinks the next three nails with just two hits each. 

When he looks down, Dean is still standing there silent, forehead wrinkled. It’s the first time Dean’s appeared at all awkward in their week of acquaintance and Castiel’s anger relents a little. 

“Has it occurred to you that you could help me?”

Dean’s eyebrows raise. 

“If you can move objects, you could hand me things instead of hiding them. You’ve spent years making people’s lives harder, but if I’m so ‘mediocre’ at repairs and you’re such an expert, why not lend a hand?” Castiel pins Dean with a look he knows used to make even the loftiest Angelus brokers feel shame. “It obviously wouldn’t kill you,” he adds.

He’s about to back down off the ladder when he catches a movement at his peripheral vision. 

The next piece of molding he’d been about to fetch is floating next to him. He slides a look at Dean. 

Dean crosses his arms in a defensive pout Castiel recognizes from his own teen years and shrugs a shoulder. 

“Point is, she was a reaper, okay? There’s a big afterlife secret for you. Reapers exist, and I said no to one. You’re supposed to be impressed.”

Castiel smiles for the first time in over two hours and sighs, “I am impressed.” 

“And reapers, they’re not guys in hoods with big blades on sticks.”

“Scythes,” Castiel corrects. 

“Whatever,” Dean says, but the box of nails Castiel needs drifts up from the floor, within easy reach.


	5. Chapter 5

An hour and a half ago, Castiel had drifted over to his laptop to Google how to tile a bathroom floor and ended up down an internet rabbit hole. Home repair projects led to homeownership led to the failed mortgage lenders, and that’s when he learned there’s an economic stimulus in the works. Hundreds of billions of dollars, all to save a corrupt system that didn’t care to save itself. Demos, Angelus’s rival lender, had swooped into the gap left in the market by Angelus and bought out other banks—for those smaller lenders it was a deal with the devil or death. But still, experts said, the bailout was needed to stanch the bleeding economy. 

He’s scrolling through an opinion piece from Paul Krugman in the  _ Times _ when Dean’s face leans in over his shoulder. “A little light reading?”

Castiel startles, then blinks himself back to the present. Sunlight has slipped out of the room while he’d been clicking one article after another; his laptop screen is glowing and Dean is almost opaque. “It’s not good news.”

“Is it ever?”

Castiel frowns at the laptop. “One can hope. It’s not easy to watch the family business fail.”

Dean leans on the desk, arms and ankles crossed, always like he owns the place. “I’m sorry, did you just say ‘family business’?” 

It’s a detail Castiel didn’t mean to let slip. He glances up at Dean and makes a decision to be honest. He types the web address for Angelus into his browser bar and clicks on the History tab. A photo of his father pops up. The family resemblance is close enough. 

Dean leans down to squint and reads the photo caption aloud. “Michael Novak, Sr., founder and original CEO of Angelus.’” He jerks back and pins Castiel with an accusatory glower. “What the hell? Your dad was CEO of the joint? Your dad. And they fired you?!” 

“The current corporate leadership doesn’t feel a great deal of loyalty. My father built himself an empire and then . . . left. Years ago. And then he passed. I barely knew him.” 

It was true. Castiel had been raised mostly in boarding schools. Strangely, that distance from his home and father may have been why he fostered a sense of responsibility to protect what the man had built, to prevent the organization he had created from becoming corrupt. But by the time he’d discovered the truth, it had been too late. 

“If anything, my familial connection is the reason I was let go.” 

“You sound like a robot, Cas. That’s family. You got any brothers or sisters?” 

Castiel cringes, despite himself. “None to speak of.” 

“What’s that mean?” 

Castiel takes a breath and clicks around on the website again, resolved to honesty. He spins the Leadership webpage with its photo of Michael’s smirk toward Dean but looks him straight in the eyes as he says. “It means my older brother is the one who fired me.” 

Dean just gapes. Castiel thinks about how he can see into Dean’s mouth, not through it like a hole in the head. Eventually he whispers, “Jesus, Cas.” 

Castiel turns his laptop square with the desk again and closes the lid. “Which is why it’s not worth speaking about.” He stands and heads toward the kitchen.

“He’s your brother,” Dean growls from behind him, and Castiel notices the light he just turned on over the sink flicker.

Castiel turns and raises his arms in a helpless shrug. “We were never close. I— I’m used to being alone, Dean. It’s fine.” The look on Dean’s face suggests he thinks it’s anything but fine, but he gives up the topic except to flicker the light again. Castiel turns away again and opens the refrigerator, scanning the contents for something that might be construed as dinner.

He fills his arms with sandwich fixings and closes the door with his toe. Dean is still standing in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed. His expression says he’s not a hundred percent happy, but what he says is, “ _ Dr. Sexy, MD _ is on tonight.”

Castiel huffs a laugh and empties his hoard on the countertop. “You have terrible taste in television.”

“Hey, driver picks music. It’s my house, I’m the driver. I pick the TV.”

“Yes, well, I’m the one who  _ lives _ here,” Castiel needles.

Dean pretends to be affronted. “Ouch, man.” 

Not long after, Castiel is seated on one end of the couch with his sandwich, while Dean occupies the other. He couldn’t find the remote, but it doesn’t matter. Dean flips it unerringly to  _ Dr. Sexy _ . 

*

  
  


A few nights later, they’re back on the couch. 

“Man, remember when MTV used to actually play music videos? Those were the days.”

Castiel does some mental math but doesn’t look away from his book on woodworking. He’s already decided he doesn’t have the skills or tools to recreate the missing spindles from the staircase himself, but the pictures of what people can accomplish with a lathe are truly amazing. “Weren’t you . . . gone . . . before MTV?”

“Sure,” Dean says, flipping the TV channel again, “but I watched it. There was a teenager here then. Not a bad kid.’ He slides a look over at Castiel. “You musta been around then. How old?” 

Castiel scrunches his face and tries to recall when MTV launched—he’s never had much of a relationship to popular culture. “In the ’80s? Young. A child.” 

“Wait, are you older than me?”

“Unlikely.”

“I mean alive years. I was born in ’46, kicked it in ’72.”

It’s the first direct mention Dean’s ever made to his death, and Castiel studies his face as he catalogues that—the barely-there freckles leftover from adolescence, the first hints of crow’s feet. Maybe someday he’ll work up the courage to ask Meg to help him find an obituary but that still feels like a violation. He’d rather wait to hear from Dean what happened.

“You were only 26,” Castiel says softly, trying hard to keep pity from his voice.

“Yeah, well,” Dean shifts on the couch. “It was a helluva couple decades.”

“I’m older than 26,” Castiel offers, trying to recover a lighter mood. 

“So you’re one of those, what do they call ’em, Gen Xers?”

“I never quite fit the mold, but yes, technically.”

“Yeah, you don’t strike me as a slacker,” Dean concedes. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel smiles, returning his attention to his book. 

“Thing about music is it’s best when you’re on the move. Vinyl’s alright, and MTV was a hell of a thing before it got shitty, but there’s nothin’ better than blasting tunes from the dashboard with nothing but highway in front of you, you know?”

Castiel doesn’t know. He was shuttled to and from boarding school by a chauffeur and relied on the MTA as an adult—not that the MTA was very reliable. If it weren’t for Gabriel’s influence during that brief period Castiel’s teenage years overlapped with Gabriel’s presence, Castiel may never have obtained a driver’s license. He closes the book and looks over at Dean. “That wasn’t my experience. Tell me more.” 

Dean grins. “I had this car, sweetest thing. 1967 Impala, black and chrome, 327 four barrel, 275 horses. She was a sexy beast. Last and best thing my dad ever did, buying that car. Once I got back from ’Nam and things were tough, you know, I used to hit the road, just me and Baby and whatever’s on the radio.”

Castiel smiles at the car’s apparent nickname but Dean is transported, eyes closed and hand on an invisible steering wheel, and elbow on the couch arms as though it’s resting on a rolled-down window. He doesn’t interrupt. 

“Little Rolling Stones, the Doors, mmm, and maybe some Zepp, if the DJ knew his stuff. You got the engine under you, purring down that highway, and the bass is filling it out. It’s like you’re all one, on a mission, nobody else to worry about. The drums come up and it feels like you swallowed the beat, it’s in your chest, in your lungs.” Dean plays air drums like the heels of his hands are banging it out on a steering wheel. “There’s the guitar solo, Jimmy Page just rippin’ it out, might as well be your heart. And it builds and it builds, builds and builds, feel it all through your body and until just . . . kksshhhhh.” Dean’s fingers splay in a moment of release, eyes still closed and face relaxed, smile loose. “Goddamn those were the days, Cas.”

Castiel lets go a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

In that moment, if someone told Castiel that ghosts could cast spells, he would’ve believed them. 

Dean’s eyes flutter open and his mouth quirks self-consciously. 

Or maybe it’s just Dean that’s magic.

“Anyway. You never been on a road trip?” Dean claps his palms to his thighs, a nervous segue. The more awkward part is that the motion doesn’t make a sound. 

“Only the one that brought me here,” Castiel answers. “It didn’t feel exactly freeing at the time.”

“Ah. Yeah, I can see that.”

“I’ll take one, though. You can recommend songs for a playlist and I’ll go . . . somewhere, someday. Unless you could—” Castiel almost doesn’t trust himself to say it, it might be crazy, it’s probably not possible “—come along?”

A smile breaks wide on Dean’s face. “Would if I could, man. Would if I could.”

* 

Other than cleaning the kitchen for functionality, Castiel hadn’t spent much time on fixing up the space until now. The floor had been updated to faux tile vinyl a few owners ago, according to Dean (“I don’t hate it,” he’d shrugged) and the wooden cabinets and countertops had been well cared for. Some of the cupboard glass panes were still missing since custom glass repair was far down Castiel’s priorities list, and he probably should’ve consulted that electrician about adding fixtures in here. But first, painting. 

So much painting. So much taping, really. All the cabinet edges and moldings were trimmed in blue painter’s tape that Castiel had spent most of the previous day sealing carefully in place with his fingertips. He’d also covered the vinyl around the perimeter of the room with paper and taped it down. Assessing the project over his morning coffee, somehow the kitchen felt like a bigger project than the living room even though there was technically less wall—or maybe Castiel was just sick of painting. 

He’d consulted Dean on the wall color.

“They’re all white,” Dean had said, squinting at the sample squares Castiel had arranged on the kitchen table. 

“They’re not white-white. They’re various shades of off-white.” 

Dean slid him a sideways look. “They’re white.” 

“Well,” Castiel conceded, “This one is called Fence Post White, but it has a faint undertone of yellow, and these here have some gray. I wasn’t sure what would complement the cherry.” He held up a swatch against the reddish wood of the cabinets and ignored Dean’s eye roll. “I don’t want to compete with it by adding too strong a color. I like the idea of farmhouse fresh, how it probably was originally.”

“I think there was wallpaper with little pink flowers in here originally,” Dean said and Castiel stared at him instead of the Eggshell paint sample he was holding up.

“You remember it?” 

Dean scratched the back of his neck, even though it couldn’t possibly itch. Castiel would never not be fascinated by how human Dean remained. “Yeah, kinda. Was my grandparents’ place. Mom’s folks. They built it in, I dunno, nineteen-o-something. Maybe the wallpaper happened when my mom was a kid, so you might be right about the white. There’s pictures in the attic.”

So after the taping but before cracking open the can of Soft Wool, Castiel now finds himself drifting up to the attic. The door at the end of the hall upstairs requires a good tug but creaks open compliantly after that. It’s too early in the day for Dean to lurk in materialized form, but Castiel wonders if this sojourn to attic had piqued his interest. He hadn’t been up here yet, figuring it was empty of anything but spiders. As he mounts the narrow, steep stairs he braces for a jungle of old furniture awaiting him. 

The stairs make a tight turn so their climber can step out onto one side rather than into the wall, and as Castiel peeks above the edge, he sees the expanse of the upper hall and bedrooms, gabled windows along the edges letting in just enough sun, and cobwebs among the rafters. There’s only one lump in sight, roughly where Castiel’s workroom is on the floor below. It looks like a trunk. 

Castiel stoops as he steps away from the stairwell, partially because the roof is low, partially to avoid anticipated spiders. The floor is wide wood planks and seems terrifically solid, but Castiel treads carefully all the same as he inches forward. 

A trunk it is, muted green with metal hasps and reinforced corners. If Castiel isn’t mistaken, it’s actually a footlocker. With a strong clench in his chest, he sits down directly in front of the trunk, paying the dusty floorboards zero mind and runs his fingers along the edges. How old is this piece of history? Who was the last human to touch it? Leaning to one side, he searches for an identifier and, sure enough, there’s a name in faded white stencil: WINCHESTER. 

This time it’s Castiel’s throat that clenches.

He flips up the latches and lifts the lid gingerly, afraid the metal might creak and give him away. But of course that’s silly—Dean might already be around, observing. And if so, he isn’t stopping him. 

Inside is another hint at history, a manufacturer’s seal on the lid with a date of 1960. 

Peering over the edge, Castiel finds a folded green military jacket, the name patch above the breast pocket also reads WINCHESTER. The crown of Castiel’s scalp begins to tingle, like he’s getting away with something. He sets the jacket aside and examines the other contents. A pair of beat-up boots, a watch with a thick leather band, a copy of  _ Cat’s Cradle _ by Vonnegut, a shoebox, and something below the shoebox that might be a photo album. 

Intent on researching the kitchen, as Dean had hinted might be possible, Castiel tugs at the album, doing his best not to disturb the other items in the trunk. It doesn’t work. Just as he shimmies the album out from under the shoebox, the box totters and tips. A landslide of photos skates across the bottom of the trunk, and a familiar face grins up at him. 

Dean. 

Young. Freckled. In black and white with a tidy haircut. A school picture. Castiel smiles back at teenage Dean and reaches for the other photos beneath him. 

Here’s Dean again, this time in 1970s sepia and a hip-length leather jacket, leaning against a slick black car that must be the famous Impala.

Another young boy—not Dean—in faded color holding a trophy in triumph. 

A haggard looking man with deep, tired eyes giving the camera a muzzy salute with a beer can. 

A younger version of that man in black and white and a military uniform, his arm around the waist of a smiling woman in a smart jacket and skirt, holding a bundle that must’ve been a baby. 

The smiling woman again, posed for a portrait, hair turned up at her temples and pouring curls onto her shoulders. She has Dean’s eyes. Or, Castiel realizes, Dean has her eyes. 

He chokes up and he’s not sure why. 

There’s a series in a row then, two boys standing out front of the house, Castiel’s house. The tree out front is smaller, but the porch is the same. In each photo it’s Dean and the boy who’d held the trophy. In one Dean’s wearing a military uniform, no smile this time, jaw tense and square below his cap. In the next, the other boy—a young man now—wears a graduation cap and gown and has surpassed Dean in height. Dean’s in the leather jacket. 

And then it’s just the two of them, over and over. In the living room at Christmas with a grizzled old man in a ball cap. Grilling in the backyard with beer bottles in hand. Dean with a rag in his back pocket leaning over the Impala’s engine, hood propped open above him. The other young man with his heels kicked up on the porch railing, longish hair hanging loose off the back of his head as he smiles with his eyes closed.

Castiel can’t swallow. “I didn’t know you had a brother,” he says hoarsely.

And then there’s a wind, as though a window had opened and a gale blew through the length of the attic. The photos Castiel had set aside scatter across the floor and the trunk lid slaps shut. 

“Oh,” Castiel breathes, picking up on Dean’s not-so subtle hint. “Okay.” He sets a hand on the photo album that he’d never even opened, intent on putting it back in the footlocker, but it spins out reach across the floor. “Yes, alright.” Castiel holds up his hands and gets to his feet. “I’ll be done now.”

He walks back to the attic stairs, and descends the first few, but can’t help a sorrowful last glance at the swirl of loose photos and trail of his footsteps in the dust. “Thank you for sharing, Dean.”

*

_ “Do we have to?” _

_ Dean’s heart is about to explode in his chest as Sam comes across the lawn sporting that cap and gown, but he can’t seem to say that. Not yet. Maybe later, after the ceremony.  _

_ “You bet your ass we have to. C’mon. Family tradition.” _

_ “I can’t be late,” Sam warns, fingers twitching at his sides.  _

_ There’s still like an hour before graduation starts, but Dean gets that Sam has a reputation to uphold, even if that reputation is the ultimate nerd. Mom would’ve wanted this photo, though. Dad too. And even though Dean doesn’t admit to being sentimental, he keeps a shoebox of memories stuffed in his footlocker. It’s for posterity. Maybe someday Sam’ll have a kid and want to see their Pop in his gawky teenage years.  _

_ “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Valedictorian, we know. Get over here.”  _

_ “Sooner you get in the shot, the sooner we can go, idjit,” says Bobby, waving Sam next to Dean.  _

_ Early June and the sun is up but not too warm yet. Hard to believe Rufus dropped him off just over a year ago. They’ve come a long way since then. Grief and anger tempted Dean to the bottom of more than one bottle, but the job with Bobby kept him on the straight and narrow. They both shepherded Sam through his senior year of high school—not that the kid lacked motivation—and he’d been accepted to attend KU in town come the fall. An occasional night down at the Roadhouse found Dean some sweet, shapely company, and if he sometimes misses his war buddies, hankers for the adrenaline rush of a mission or the shift of firm muscle under his hands and against his body, well . . . Small price to pay for something this close to happiness. _

_ Sam grumps into the spot under Dean’s waiting arm and slumps against the Impala. Bobby frowns at him from over the camera viewfinder. “Try again,” he orders. _

_ Sam sighs and straightens up, out from under Dean’s arm, but still unsmiling.  _

_ Dean biffs the back of Sam’s mortar board, causing him to huff and fuss with getting his hair and tassel out of his eyes.  _

_ “Say ‘straight A’s!’” Bobby prompts and Sam and Dean both give tight smiles around the words.  _

_ “Crud, hang on,” Bobby says and looks down at the camera. “Blasted thing,” he mutters, futzing with the film advancer.  _

_ “Hey,” Dean pushes his shoulder into Sam’s. “You done good, kid. Proud’a you.”  _

_ Sam’s expression goes puppy-dog soft, all earnest eyes. “Yeah?” _

_ Dean nods, since his throat just threatened collapse. “’Course.”  _

_ Bobby squints through the viewfinder again. “There we go. Smile, boys!”  _

_ This time they already are. _

*

There is exactly one pizza place in town that will deliver outside city limits to the house. Castiel knows he’s in danger of abusing their service by ordering from them a second night in a row, but in addition to pizza they also offer an excellent cheeseburger. And it’s not like he can cook anything in the kitchen at the moment. He taps his way to recent calls on his phone and dials the number.

Well, alright, he could cook something. The countertops and cupboards are still lined with tape, but that doesn’t prevent their use and he’s kept the paint supplies limited to one area. But there’s  _ could _ and there’s the reality of motivation. And, if he’s honest, he’s indulging a craving. 

A craving he blames on Dean, who had been rapturously recounting his favorite foods the previous evening. Cheeseburgers had received a particularly sensual description.

“Yes, hello, I’d place an order for delivery,” he says when a polite but harried voice asks what they can do for him. 

“Okay. Can you hold for a second?” the voice asks. There’s wait music on before Castiel can agree.

Before, back in New York, there wasn’t room or time patience for indulgences. Castiel accepted what was offered, met needs when they needed meeting. He incorporated pleasures into his life, of course. Good music. High thread count sheets. The confidence of a well-tailored suit. But he hadn’t allowed, or even thought to allow, giving time or money over to something only because he wanted it, because it made his mouth water or his pulse beat fast or his chest ache. Doing that would have called attention to him, or signaled a weakness, or formed a habit. He couldn’t risk those things and risk avoidance had literally been his job. 

But here in Kansas there are no such risks. The more weeks go by, the more Castiel meets his own and the house’s baseline needs, he more often he wanders across wants. Sometimes the want was aesthetic (a new table and large mirror for the dining room), sometimes it was a creature comfort (a window AC unit for his bedroom upstairs for the increasingly warm nights), and sometimes it was . . . less tangible. As he repairs and fills the house, Castiel recognizes that he feels repaired and filled too. But every now and then he bumps a hollow spot and it reverberates, like an echo trapped in a jar. That want—he doesn’t know what fills it yet.

“Thanks for holding. Can I get your address?”

“Oh,” Castiel shakes off his thoughts and snaps his vision to the takeout menu in his hand, rather than the middle-distance of nothingness. He recites his street address and requests his cheeseburger, hold the onions but with pickles, yes to fries. “I’m afraid I don’t have cash on hand for a tip,” he tells his order taker, “Could you add five to the charge total, to make it worth the trip?”

Transaction complete, Castiel tries to imbue his thanks with earnestness—he’d been put on hold a second time and the ambient noise on the other end of the call suggested it was a busy night for dine-in. 

“‘Thank you sooooo much,’” Dean repeats and Castiel turns around from sticking the takeout menu to the fridge with a magnet to find a teasing smile focused on him. 

“Hello, Dean.”

“Really sucking up there. Did she sound cute?” Dean winks and Castiel rolls his eyes, shouldering past him. Or, his apparition. Would he have bumped Dean’s shoulder or passed through it if he hadn’t dodged? Strange how being haunted can be entirely normal and still incredibly confusing.

“They sounded busy and I know it’s a drive out here.” 

“Yeah, a five dollar tip on an eight dollar burger. Get a load of you, Mr. Big Spender. In my day you could get a cheeseburger at McDonald’s for just over a quarter.” 

Castiel makes a face, “I’m not sure McDonald’s burgers are even meat anymore.” He returns to wrapping a damp paint roller in plastic and tidying the other supplies for the night. He’s reasonably confident Dean won’t move them anymore. “Besides, I don’t like to be an imposition on others, unlike some people I know.” 

Dean snorts.

“What?” Castiel pushes a thumb across the base of his trim brush’s bristles, scraping off paint buildup and watching watery white spin down the drain. 

“You sure imposed yourself on my house.”

Castiel smiles. “That’s different.” He finishes with the brush and reaches for a towel. Dean is still visible, arms crossed, and studying him with a little smirk.

“What now?” he asks again, having even less idea of what’s on Dean’s mind this time.

“So I’m ‘people,’ huh?”

Castiel shrugs. “What’s wrong with that?”

Dean drops and spreads his hands. “Other than that I’m dead?”

Castiel waves the towel at him. “Inconsequential.”

“Says you!” 

“Ha. Alright, fine,” Castiel opens the fridge to retrieve a beer. “Like some ghosts I know, even though I only know one.” He pops the beer cap off with the bottle opener affixed to a cabinet—an addition of Dean’s, he’d learned—and crosses the kitchen to go wait for his burger delivery on the porch.

“No, no, people’s good,” Dean says. There’s an emotion in his smile that wasn’t there before. A little sadness, maybe. “I can be your people.” 

And something about the way he says it bumps the echo in Castiel’s chest.


	6. Chapter 6

By July, his  DONE list is longer than his  TO-DO list. 

The living room’s been done for awhile and the dark red wall has grown on him, especially once he bought a new area rug with shades of red woven in. It anchors the space and the navy couch and light gray accent chairs that came with him from New York. 

At the entryway he’d placed an antique foyer console he’d picked up at a consignment shop. It’s more ornate than his taste usually runs, but the curving French design means there are no corners to stab into a hip and it’s a useful place to put down keys or a grocery sack.

He did indulge one of those big wants and purchased a new dining room table since his apartment-sized dining set has become the kitchen table. The room deserved something good quality and grand to complement Dean’s china hutch. Castiel had visited every furniture mart in town, from warehouses to second-hand stores (hence the foyer table), before finally finding the right combination of stately but not stuffy, and on sale.

It’s true that the house is less put together upstairs. His bedroom is comfortable enough, but of the spare rooms one is entirely empty, one still has the remnants of his little repair shop, and one has leak in the outside wall where Dean informed him there used to be a chimney. 

Still, Castiel officially feels the house is ready for company.

Company at this point means Meg, since his dedicated work on the house hasn’t allowed him to expand his social circle much. But Meg is also a good choice for first guest, as she’s the person who would best understand the house’s transformation and how much work it’s been for Castiel.

He’s excited when she accepts his invite with a smile and offers to bring a bottle of wine to christen the place.

He’s excited as he selects vegetables at the farmer’s market and purchases bread from his favorite bakery and spends the afternoon preparing a marinara he perfected years ago. 

He’s excited as he ruffles a dab of product through his wet hair after a shower, rolls the sleeves on the first white button-down he’s worn in months, and dashes down the stairs to greet Meg at the door. 

He’s less excited when he turns the corner into the kitchen to open Meg’s bottle of wine and finds Dean leaning against the counter, arms crossed. 

Dean tips his head in the direction of the living room. “Who’s your hot date?”

“Keep your voice down,” Castiel whispers as he rifles through a drawer for the corkscrew. 

He hadn’t forgotten about Dean, of course. But Dean had never revealed himself while contractors were in the house, so Castiel had assumed there was an arrangement, of some kind. That Dean doesn’t show up around visitors. He deeply regrets that assumption at the moment.

“She’s a piece,” Dean says and whistles low.

“She’s not a ‘piece’ and it’s not a date. Meg works at the library and has helped research my remodeling projects. I’m making her dinner as a thank you.”

“Uh huh,” Dean deadpans. “You sure she doesn’t think there’s a _ thank you _ on the dessert menu?” He holds a hand in the air as though braced along an imaginary back, bites his bottom lip, and thrusts his hips in a mock sex act.

Castiel feels a flare of embarrassment travel up his neck to his cheeks. “Definitely not,” he says, even as the corkscrew slips from the top of the bottle. 

“Aw, c’mon, Cas. Ain’t no shame in needing some action. Ohhh, unless you’ve been busy at that library?” He grins. “That’s hot, man.” 

“Shut up, Dean.” Castiel growls through clenched teeth as he pours the wine into two glasses. He doesn’t know how he ever convinced himself Dean would behave. 

Dean just shrugs, but Castiel fixes him with a glare as he goes to stir the marinara anyway.

“You done good, Clarence,” Meg calls, clearly in the hall and headed toward the kitchen.

“Pet name, eh?” Dean winks, but he disappears before Castiel can reply and Meg rounds the corner to find him pointing an accusatory sauce-covered spoon at the air. 

* 

Earlier that afternoon, Castiel had set two places across from one another at the dining room table. When he enters with the serving dishes, however, he finds that Meg has moved one of the place settings to the end of the table, so they’ll be seated adjacent to each other. She smiles up at him from her new seat and takes a sip of wine. 

Castiel gulps.

Maybe Dean wasn’t wrong.

Midway through the meal Meg asks, “So what’s up with your ghost these days?”

Castiel chokes on his bite of baguette. It takes a coughing fit, a few big swallows of wine to clear, and some stern internal convincing she couldn’t possibly have overhead Dean in the kitchen to clear. He smiles meekly afterward and says, “Excuse me, that was embarrassing,” hoping to change the subject.

Meg waves off his concern and completely—or deliberately, knowing Meg—misunderstands. “I know. You were so sure ghosts don’t exist. But I knew, didn’t I? I told you so.” 

Spinning pasta around his fork, Castiel thinks back to her insistence and archive news articles. “Yes. You did.”

“Do you know how I knew?”

He raises an eyebrow. Castiel had been under the impression it was just a local legend. “Not exactly, no.” 

Meg leans closer and gives him a girlish smile. “I saw him. Once. Years ago.”

“Oh?” A little panicked jealousy splashes over Castiel. Has Meg known about Dean all along? But, no, she would’ve said. And anyway it shouldn’t matter that Meg knows. The fact that the house is presumed haunted obviously isn’t a secret.

Except, it’s become a secret. Or, Dean has. Dean as a person, as a man who had a family and served in a war and raised his brother and loved greasy diner food. Dean has become Castiel’s secret. A secret it seems he’s clearly not ready to share.

“Some friends and I broke in here. We were just dumb college kids looking for a place to get high and the house was in between owners, you know?” Meg seems to pick up on the face that Castiel does not, in fact, know. “I was a different person then—a blonde, even,” she sidebars. “The point is, somebody brought a ouija board, which is how I knew that’s what you’d need.”

The ouija board did indeed summon Dean but not in the way Meg seemed to believe. 

“So when you met—” Castiel just catches himself from naming Dean “—him, did you two talk?”

Meg laughs. “Jesus, no.” But then her expression turns serious, eyes widening and corners of her mouth turning down instead of lifting in perpetual smirk. For the first time in their acquaintance she looks vulnerable. “Okay, so, I swear this is true. You have to believe me.” 

Out of respect for her solemnity, Castiel lays down his fork and gives her his undivided attention. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Of course you will.” Meg smiles then, soft, and she puts a hand on his arm. She steels herself with a breath. “All right. The truth is I was possessed by a demon that night.

Castiel sits very still. 

_ Do you  _ want  _ this place crawling with demons _ ? Dean had said.  _ Dark sonsabitches. Like gum stuck on your shoe _ .

“You don’t believe me.” Meg withdraws her hand and Castiel can practically see her defensive walls rising. 

He shakes his head no to refute that and she tenses, like a drawbridge about to snap shut. “I do, actually.” It’s her turn to look surprised, so he searches for a plausible answer. “Named for an angel, remember? There’s some deep religious belief in my family.”

An  _ of course _ dawns over Meg’s face and she touches his arm again, gripping this time. “It was terrifying. The thing was moving me, speaking through me, but I was awake. It was like watching through a window. My friends said my eyes turned black, and I—” she closes her eyes and swallows a memory. “Well, I hurt people. But at some point this man appeared. Not man, a ghost. And I remember he started saying something, but it definitely wasn’t English. After that I don’t . . . it’s hazy. I think the thing in me was fighting him? I don’t know. I don’t remember. A friend told me that we didn’t make it out until morning, and when it ended a black smoke poured out of me, right out of my mouth, and I sank to the floor. I felt like shit for days.” 

Dean who fights demons, who protects his house from dark spirits and misguided teenagers. Dean who was a good son and a good soldier and loved to drive. Dean who now laughs at bad TV and floats a damp rag to Castiel when he’s painting and it’s out of reach. How can one man be all these things, Castiel marvels. 

Not man, ghost. 

“That’s horrible.” 

Meg nods, eyes closed, and leans back. Castiel gives her time and after a moment she reaches for her wine glass, crossing her other arm under an elbow.

“Anyway, that’s how I knew I was right,” she says, bright sarcasm back. “And you met him too. But apparently you got rid of him because this place doesn’t look even a smidge haunted and you haven’t mentioned it since.”

“Yes, well. My experience with the ouija board was not as dramatic as yours. Whatever spirit is here, we seem to have an understanding,” he says pointedly, hoping Dean overhears. “It was brave of you to come back here. I hope it’s been a better experience.” 

Meg’s smirk creeps back onto her face. “No contest, angel.” 

Castiel folds his napkin from his lap and presses it to the tabletop, suddenly aware what he’s about to ask now sounds like an embarrassingly terrible double entendre to him. “Would you like dessert?”

*

They’re standing at the front entry, Castiel leaning against the door, knob in one hand, and Meg on her way out, screen door not yet pushed open. The night air pools between them, cool and sweet. 

“Thank you for coming over,” he says, genuinely pleased with the evening overall. 

“Thanks for cookin’, good lookin’,” Meg winks. 

There’s a pause. The porch light is on and June bugs bump the screen. And then Meg yanks him by the collar into a kiss. 

Castiel is too surprised—and too polite—to pull away. But then he finds himself kissing her back on instinct. Her mouth is warm, the sudden closeness of her intoxicating. He reaches up and threads his fingers through the dark softness of her hair, tilting her chin and deepening the kiss. 

The porch light gives an angry crackle and flicker. 

Castiel’s heart thumps an irregular beat and he pulls back. He cups Meg’s hands with his own, encouraging her to let go. It’s difficult. She’s enticing. But this isn’t . . . honest. 

“I— I’m sorry—” he starts, but Meg just cants a smile at him. 

“It’s alright. I was just checking. Too bad, though.” She runs a thumb across his bottom lip. “You’re a hell of a kisser.” She gives his cheek two gentle pats and steps back to push the screen door open. 

“See ya around, Clarence!” she calls over her shoulder as she descends the steps and out of the porch light’s glow. “Stop by next time you’re in town. I found some old pictures of this place you might like.”

Castiel stays rooted in the doorway, watching out the screen door, a mix of embarrassment, relief, and a little bit of longing tangling in his chest. He remains there until the headlights of Meg’s car bounce down the driveway and turn onto the road, back toward town.

So yes, Dean had been right when he’d speculated about Meg’s expectations for the evening, and Castiel’s cheeks flush again at just the thought. He’d been flattered by Meg’s flirting early on, but over time he’d come to think of it as a personality trait, part of her sense of humor, not something with a hope behind it. After all, who would hope for him? 

Years ago he would’ve played along anyway. A woman like Meg would’ve been a formidable verbal sparring opponent for his brothers and Castiel would’ve felt strong by proxy. They might’ve made a good team.

But that was New York Castiel, who pretended as a means of survival. Kansas Castiel isn’t interested in pretending, it turns out. 

He shakes his head and steps out of the threshold, closing the door behind him. As he reaches for the switch to turn out the porch light, it flips down and off on its own.

Well, not quite on its own, of course.

* 

When Dean pops up the next morning, he doesn’t gloat, as Castiel had expected. Instead he opens with “So you two an item now?”

“No, definitely not,” Castiel chuckles, but Dean seems doubtful. “I’m not attracted to her, Dean.”

Dean shrugs like he didn’t care to begin with. “None of my business, man. But that kiss coulda fooled me.”

Castiel turns to rinse his coffee mug in the sink and disguise his eye roll.

Meg’s desire may have been misplaced but the kiss, the closeness of another person’s body—it’s true that’s sticking with him this morning.

At least half of his embarrassment at Dean’s teasing the previous night had been over the truth of it. It’s years since he’s been with someone, and he’s had little experience overall. Certainly in comparison to Dean, that is. If his stories could be believed, Dean’s short life had been atypically active, sexually speaking. 

That didn’t mean Castiel was without desire. It had just gotten smothered under the weight of judgement from his family and the depression that crept into his days. But those weren’t features of his life anymore. 

“I’ll be out today,” Castiel informs Dean as he ducks into the half bath for his toothbrush. “I have a few things to pick up in town.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay. Meg said she wanted you to stop the library too, right?” Dean’s attempt to keep his voice neutral is comically obvious. 

“Meg’s not working today,” he calls back into the kitchen. Toothpaste acquired, Castiel leans in the doorway to watch Dean. As he scrubs his teeth in micro-circle motions, Dean pushes newspaper around the table to find the comics, pretending nothing is bothering him. 

“Are you jealous?” Castiel asks through toothpaste foam.

Dean stiffens. “Don’t be dumb, Cas. She’s not my type.”

It doesn’t escape him how lonely Dean must be to feel jealous that he’s not Castiel’s only friend, or perhaps that Castiel had the opportunity for a relationship and passed on it. But it’s a little bit sweet, too.

“Mine either. Too female,” Castiel says and rolls back into the bathroom to swish and spit.

* 

As promised, Castiel spends the majority of the day in town. He returns some curtains to Target and exchanges them for linen sheets, hoping they’ll be cooler than his current cotton ones. In another little celebration of completing major repairs, he dined out and even took in a film at the local cineplex. But Meg’s kiss and Dean’s diffidence replay every time his mind goes idle.

On arriving home, Dean doesn’t show and Castiel cuts short his nightly routine. Rather than unwinding with an hour or so of TV, he heads straight upstairs to change into his loose sleeping shorts and climb into bed early, not tired but eager. 

Because when Castiel thinks about a kiss, thinks about someone’s hand around the back of his neck, thinks about running his tongue along a plump bottom lip . . . 

When he thinks about tracing hands down someone’s back—a broad, firm back—before tugging that person’s hips against him . . . 

He lies in bed, in the dark, under just a cotton sheet in the humid summer night, and feels his cock throb against his palm. 

Yes, Castiel knows desire. He rubs the heel of his hand over his shorts a few times and closes his eyes despite the dark. This isn’t the same as pretending, he reminds himself. It’s fantasizing, allowing himself to imagine what possible now, in this new life.

So he imagines someone else’s wide palm touching him, someone’s breath hot at his neck. He imagines skin he could lick, sandy hair he could drag his fingers through, green eyes to meet his, a rough voice to call him  _ Cas _ .

It’s Dean. He’s imagining Dean. 

As soon as the thought hits, Castiel gasps and stills his fist, seizing tight to keep from coming. Fully erect and fully in hand, he pants into the sultry dark, not wanting the moment to end but stunned by the realization. He tests the thought again— _ Dean _ —and hot want thrums through him. 

There’s nothing to do but stoke it. He strokes his cock and conjures memories of Dean’s shoulders, his laugh, his lips.

If those lips were around his cock, if that brash, busy mouth could tease . . . 

“Oh,” Castiel squeezes his eyes tight. He bites his lip and tries to hold his breath but— “Hnnng, yes, De—” 

And he comes, warm shot over his knuckles. His heart skips beats as he allows the pleasure roll around in his veins, to eddy and pool and pour out of him. 

When the rush is over, after he’s given his heart and breath time to recover and loosened his hand slowly from around his sensitive cock, he opens his eyes in the dark, hot room and allows himself to acknowledge what this means. 

By allowing himself to imagine what’s possible, he’s discovered the thing he wants most isn’t at all possible. 

He can admire Dean’s lovely lips and bow legs and broad hands, but he can never have them, because he can never touch them. 

Castiel scrubs his clean hand along the sweat collected on his forehead, flops his arm on the pillow above his head, and sighs out the only word that can appropriately sum up his predicament. “Fuck.”

*

_ Dean wakes up on the sofa with a jolt of panic. He’s late. It’s late. How late? _

_ He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and rubs until he can keep his eyes open, then fumbles for his watch. A little after 8AM. Not late, yet. Just a late night. Fuck, what a night.  _

_ Dean sits up and pauses at the edge of the sofa, fighting the beginnings of a hangover.  _

_ He remembers the bar, the beers. Remembers clueing into a smooth smile while taking aim over a pool cue. And, later, braced against the Impala, a hot mouth on his, the scrabble of hands at his belt, and then that smooth smile again just before it swallowed his dick down and made him come so hard he stamped a heel in the parking lot gravel. Dean returned the favor with a slick fist, didn’t catch the guy’s name, and wasn’t troubled by either. _

_ He shakes his head to snap out of the memory and into the morning.  _

_ “Sammy! Rise and shine,” he calls up the stairs on his way to the kitchen. He clatters the coffee pot together and gets the water set to boil before deciding he’s too rank to re-wear yesterday’s clothes.  _

_ He makes sure his footsteps clomp loud on the stairs and raps twice on Sam’s door as he passes. “Up and at ’em. Don’t make me late.”  _

_ It’s Thursday so the kid’s got class by 9:00 and Dean needs to get to the garage by 9:30. He peels out of his t-shirt, locates a clean one and some skivvies, and picks up a Singer Auto Salvage work smock before heading back out to the hall.  _

_ Just then Sam’s door opens, dumping a gangly college sophomore into the hallway and across it to the bathroom in one stumble. Dean stops short to avoid a crash and sighs when the bathroom door slams in his face. _

_ “Whatever you’re doing, make it fast!” he warns and resigns himself to hitting the hotspots with a washcloth in the downstairs bathroom instead of a shower.  _

_ The coffee helps his head. Scrambled eggs help his stomach, and he leaves the rest for Sam, who inhales them as he floats around the kitchen picking up books and pencils. _

_ “Test today?” Dean asks. Call it an educated guess. It’s college—there’s always a test. _

_ Sam’s hair falls in his face as he shakes his head. “No. Next week. Just a lot of reading for Moral Philosophy.”  _

_ “Right,” Dean nods along, blowing on his coffee. “Khan.” _

_ “Kant,” Sam corrects. _

_ Dean winces on a hot swallow. “That’s what I said.” _

_ Sam rolls his eyes fondly in a way that is somehow one-hundred percent Mary Winchester and Dean’s heart twinges hard.  _

_ Good things are hard to come by, in Dean’s experience. But what they’ve had going these past couple years, he and Sam, this is good. Dean doesn’t know to whom exactly, but he’s grateful every goddamn day for this home, a job that keeps his hands busy and his brain out of the past, and a whip-smart brother who will do more for the world than Dean can dream of.  _

_ He stands at the kitchen sink and stares out the window, coffee cup in hand, as somewhere behind him Sam finds shoes and pulls on a denim jacket.  _

_ It’s not a lot, this life. But it’s better than he thought it would be, and it’s his, and he’s not letting it go. _

_ “Earth to Dean,” Sam says, impatient. “Come on. You’re going to make me late.” _

*

Dean materializes perched on the kitchen counter. Castiel doesn’t even look up from his laptop, just frowns deeper at the screen. It’s impossible to find what he needs on this company’s website. 

“Finally drove you to it, huh?”

“Hmmm?” Castiel squints. There’s not even a proper History or About Us tab. How is he supposed to learn about the business and its values without that? He hasn’t applied for a job in years—and really the résumé he submitted to Michael after college had been pro forma—but all the job advice websites say to research your potential employers and incorporate their ethos in your application materials. That hadn’t sounded hard, but fewer Lawrence firms have a significant web presence than he was expecting. 

“Finally looking up ways to nuke a ghost?”

This company doesn’t need an accountant, it needs a webmaster. 

“There are all kinds of ways you could get rid of me,” Dean says breezily. 

Castiel back-buttons a few pages. “I don’t want to be rid of you.” 

“Iron, for one,” Dean suggests, his heels drumming on against the cabinet doors instead of passing through them. “That’s temporary, but you slash me with, say, a fireplace poker, and I’m outta here for a good five to ten. Salt and burn would get me gone for good, but you’d have to go dig up my bones.” 

Castiel peels his eyes from the computer and fixes his ghost with a frown. “Dean.”

“I’m sure they put me in the family plot. It’s under a nice tree. Used to go visit my folks there, have a little Winchester family reunion.” 

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, a twinge of sympathy in his voice this time. 

“Exorcism wouldn’t really take, seeing as I’m not all up in anybody, but a house blessing might scare me off. Never did like church.” His shudder is overdramatic. 

Castiel rubs his eyes and sighs. “Dean, really—” 

“Or maybe I got some unfinished business. Maybe I’m hanging around because I never got the June 1970 issue of  _ Busty Asian Beauties _ for my collection and if you buy it I’ll just go rest in peace. Yeah, you should give that one a whirl,” he adds with a grin. 

“Dean, I’m not researching how to get rid of you.”

“Oh.” Dean’s brow creases for a brief second as that sinks in. “So, what? Lasagna recipes? Man, I could go for some lasagna.”

Castiel laughs. He gets to his feet, moving to the sink to refill his water glass. “I’m applying for a job.” He leans a hip on the counter and watches as Dean processes that news with a series of surprisingly complex expressions. 

“A job. Like workaday, wear-a-suit-to-the-office job.” 

“Preferably, yes.”

Dean makes a surprised kind of pout. “Huh.”

“I’ve done what I can and what was needed with the house. It’s time to leave the nest, so to speak.” Castiel moves back to the table and his laptop. He can’t properly tailor his cover letter and résumé if he can’t find the information he needs, so he types the name of the next firm into the Google search bar and scans the results. 

“Yeah, sure, of course. I guess I just hadn’t thought about it.” Dean’s heels thud against the cabinets again, dully this time. “I mean, technically you were gonna fix the leak in the bedroom upstairs.”

“That’s true. And I talked with a contractor about it a few days ago. He’s busy until next month, but it can wait. And it wouldn’t be bad to start bringing in some income. I can’t live on severance and savings forever.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, no, totally. A man’s gotta work for a living.”

“What did you do for work?” Castiel asks, eyes still on his Google results. “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned it.” 

“Oh. Uh, mechanic. Friend of my dad’s set me up at his place after ’Nam.”

Castiel glances up at Dean over his laptop screen, “Mm, that makes sense. You do seem good with your hands.” 

Dean’s eyebrows arch. “You noticed, huh?” 

_ Touché _ , Castiel thinks and smirks at him before fixing his eyes back on his screen. He hadn’t meant to flirt, but discovering that Dean didn’t back away from it was . . . interesting. Since the night Castiel had indulged himself, he’d been thinking back to what he knows of Dean’s sexual history. For all his  _ Busty Asian Beauties _ bluster and tales of pickup-artist conquest, Dean also left out enough pronouns to raise a few questions. But that could’ve been wishful thinking on Castiel’s part. Dean volleying back the ball bounced into his court feels a little more certain.

“You seem like a man of many talents,” Castiel replies, nonchalant, and scrolls down an About page. He feels more than sees Dean’s eyes narrow, as though they’ve been switched to laser focus. 

“So what kind of boring office work we talking about here? Part-time, full-time?” Dean slides off the counter and saunters over, spinning a chair backwards before straddling it and leaning in at Castiel’s side. If he were corporeal, Castiel would be able to smell his cologne, or whatever combination of engine grease and leather Dean Winchester must’ve smelled like in life. Instead, there’s a chill at his elbow. The effect is the same, however: goosebumps. 

“Full-time, ideally.” Castiel clicks over to the window showing the job search site and position description. 

Dean objects after reading just a few lines. “Aw, don’t take this job.” 

“Why not? It’s a good offer from a decent-sized firm in the city. And the benefits package is generous.” 

Dean grips the chair back with one hand and gestures dismissively with the other. “It’s for a tax guy. Nobody likes a tax guy. Don’t be that guy.”

Shame and some anger bleed into Castiel’s light mood. That chip on Dean’s blue-collar shoulder cuts sharp. “I used to be that guy. Finance is my area of expertise, Dean.” 

Dean’s frown seems mostly at himself even as his eyes study Castiel. “Yeah okay, you’re a numbers nerd, I get that.” He resettles his arms across the chair back and rests his chin on his fist. “But what else you got? That company was a bag of dicks in my day.”

“Well, that sounds like a waste,” Castiel mumbles wistfully, regaining some of his levity, and Dean’s laugh comes out as a startled honk. 

“You sound like you need to get laid, Cas,” he says. 

Castiel shrugs and moves his cursor to a different job description. “How do you know I haven’t?”

“’Cuz I watched you send that Meg chick home the other night.”

There’s a proprietary tone in Dean’s retort that definitely shouldn’t send a shiver down Castiel’s spine, and yet it definitely does. “Oh, and how often do you keep watch over my nights, Mr. Winchester?” Castiel teases as he types another company name into the search bar, pretending he doesn’t feel his cheeks warming.

When Dean doesn’t give an immediate reply, Castiel looks over.

Dean is grinning at him, wolfish and too knowing. “Often enough.”

*

It’s hot. The uncomfortable kind of hot, pre-storm, when the air has weight and your skin feels too warm despite the thin cover of sweat. Castiel lays sprawled in bed with his top sheet in a tangle, shifting every few minutes to a cooler few inches of mattress. 

Sleep won’t come. It’s the heat, in part, but also nerves. Castiel has not one but two interviews coming up and the thought of rejoining the workforce, of entering the world every day on someone else’s terms, of giving himself over to a company, a mission after so long away— 

He’s struggling. 

Logically, Castiel knows any new job will not demand the same as Angelus did. But as much as he wants to add a new dimension to his life here, he also fears losing the changes he’s made to himself. What if returning to work returns him to the mostly soulless version of himself? What if he becomes, as Dean put it,  _ that guy _ ? 

None of these are rational things to be worrying about at two in the morning, and a lack of sleep won’t serve him. But somehow the tumult of the atmosphere on the brink of a storm found its way into Castiel’s veins. Rather than sinking into the relief promised by the sound of thunder rolling in the distance and first drops rain on the roof, he feels further on edge.

With a grumbled sigh, Castiel sits up and spins to plant his feet on the floor. He sinks his head into his palms and scrubs his face, unsure what to do with himself. It’s too late to start a project, too early to stay awake for the day. The sense of purgatory adds to his agitation. 

He shoves off the bed and pads out of the room, not bothering to add a t-shirt to his shorts. His feet carry him down the hall to the spare bedroom with the outer wall leak. According to Dean, a fireplace on this side of the house and its chimney had been removed by the owners prior to Castiel. The rippled damage to the wall is a giveaway that it hadn’t been repaired appropriately. Based on the flaking paint and brownish stain along crack in the plaster, it’s gone untreated at least since that family moved out years before. There’s not much that can be done except wait for the contractor, though. 

Castiel forgoes turning on lights. He makes his way to the wall and reaches up to feel the spot. It’s still dry, of course. The rain is only just picking up to constant. But he trails his fingers along the rough spot and worries about what’s underneath, how much of the wall will need repair, whether he’s doing the right thing pouring himself into this place. Will the next owner know, or care? 

He can’t imagine anyone next, especially in this strange moment of stormy in-between. He arrived here prepared to do penance as an exile, but now it’s his safe place, his home. Literal shelter from the storm. 

Castiel shifts over to the nearest window and watches, trying to make out the storm’s wide boundaries by catching glimpses of lightning bolts in the distance and counting the seconds until thunder cracks overhead. The interval gets shorter each time as the storm’s center draws closer, or so the wisdom goes. 

He’s not sure how many seconds have gone by when he realizes he’s not alone. There’s a presence at his back that hadn’t been there before. Castiel closes his eyes. 

“Dean.” 

There’s the barest movement of air along his neck, like a held breath just exhaled. That well of wanting opens inside Castiel and he wishes, wishes this were real. 

No, that’s not quite right. For what it is, this is real. He wishes it were tangible. Wishes he could turn and wrap his arms around Dean, offer comfort to his lost soul, receive solace in return. 

Instead there’s a ghost stroke of a finger down his shoulder, a pressure at his opposite hip, as though a hand were resting there. Eyes still closed, Castiel straightens his posture and tilts his head as if listening might help him feel. There’s a graze down his abdomen, skirting low along his shorts, and he tenses. 

Obviously he’s thought about it, about Dean. But not quite like this.

Real or tangible or not, Castiel’s body responds with interest. Another “Dean” is startled out of him, hoarse with want he can’t hide. 

“Shhhhh,” soothes Dean, the sound somehow coming from everywhere, mixing with the rush of rain. But the “Let me?” is whispered right into Castiel’s ear. 

Jaw dropped and knees weakening, Castiel looks down as a hand that isn’t quite visible cups his inner thigh, not being shy about brushing against his hardening cock. 

“Yes,” he breathes. “Okay, yes.” 

He braces a hand against the window frame and arches back as Dean begins a firm, stroking pressure. 

If Dean were here— 

He is here—

If Dean were real — 

He is real—

If Castiel could see him, see himself and Dean together— 

If lightning flashed right that moment and revealed their reflection in the window, Castiel knows he’d see his head tossed against Dean’s shoulder as Dean sucks kisses into his throat, see Dean working Castiel’s cock with one hand while the other braces his hip tight so he can feel Dean’s own hard-on. 

That’s what it feels like. Heaven help his mixed-up senses, they’re positive that’s what’s happening. 

He thrusts forward and there’s the pressure of a hand to push against. He tilts his head and there are lips behind his ear. He gets a chill and does open his eyes, only to be greeted by his breath in the darkness. Goosebumps gather on his sweat-slick skin, his nipples harden. 

Rain slashes outside the house and Castiel’s moan is lost in a thunderclap. 

Pleasure slides through and bends him forward, his hands bracing on the bottom window ledge.

“I got you,” Dean whispers as Castiel’s knees tremble and spread. He feels Dean’s grip tighten and his arm curve upward, hand splaying over Castiel’s chest.

Still, he doesn’t let go. Something inside him curls like smoke, setting good fire to every godforsaken nerve. 

“Dean,” he pants, “Dean, I feel you. I feel you.”

That gets a moan from Dean, sending a feedback thrill into Castiel. 

“God, if I could touch you—” he begins but Dean’s pace picks up on his cock and the thought is lost in a series of desperate  _ ohs _ . 

“Tell me,” Dean orders. “Tell me what you’d do.” 

Castiel’s never been explicitly vocal during sex but he doesn’t care now. Dean needs this. 

“I’d get you inside me,” he growls, and Dean’s forehead drops against Castiel’s back.

“Christ yes. What else?”

“I’d grip you tight and ride you until you come.” 

Dean’s groan doesn’t form words. His mouth is busy biting a kiss into Castiel’s shoulder. 

Castiel’s hips pump hungrily into Dean touch, little nudges to force the moment. “I’m close Dean, so close.” And then, between one breath and the next, “Oh God. Oh yes, yes.” Castiel comes, first pulse hot against his skin. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean bites out. “Fucking say my name, Cas. One more time.” 

“Dean,” Castiel praises, voice deep and pleasure soaked and still needy as his body pulses. “Yes, Dean.” 

“I’m here, baby.” Dean’s voice gruff, with emotion or frustration or both, Castiel has no way of knowing. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re mine.

He feels a brush at the back of his neck—the ghost of a kiss—and knows Dean’s absent now. 

Castiel collapses against the wall, orgasm still ravaging through him. His breath comes in pants as he wills his heart to regain rhythm and legs to stop twitching. The air is thick and hot in the room again. Thunder echoes in the distance, the storm having passed overhead during . . . during that. 

Now that he’s not in bed, he’s too exhausted to move. He’ll get up in a minute. And tomorrow he’ll wake up and convince himself this was a heat-induced fever dream. And then he’ll land himself a job. And this house will be his home. 

The home he shares with the ghost of a man he just might love. 


	7. Chapter 7

Dean doesn’t materialize the next day, or the one after, and Castiel carries on exactly as he’d intended. 

He tells himself it hadn’t been real. He attends both job interviews and gets an offer the very next day. He celebrates alone and tries not to feel disappointed by that. He shuts his eyes and shivers with memories of sensation he tells himself there’s no way he could have experienced. 

It’s easier to deny something happened than to know what to expect now. He had allowed himself to want, had welcomed it and let it wash over him, only to find himself alone. It threatens to destabilize him, and he wants to be angry.

So it’s easier to decide that Dean is real but their night together wasn’t. Because he can’t be angry about something that hadn’t happened.

Except. 

Except there’s a mark along the crest of his right shoulder. Two pink half moons. The shape of a lover’s bite.

*

The following Sunday there’s sunlight trickling through the window as Castiel lays in bed, just on the verge of awareness. A slight shift of shadow makes him blink awake, only to find green eyes and crows feet peering at him from the next pillow over.

His first reaction is to close his eyes again and sigh with relief. Of course Dean is there. Of course he crowds immediately across the boundary only just opened to him. Of course. 

His second reaction is a small smile and a morning-deep “Hello, Dean.” 

Dean’s answering grin cracks like the dawn but his “Hey, Cas,” is soft. Tender, even. Enough to make Castiel blush. 

He tips his face into his pillow and gives himself a moment of giddy, embarrassed joy. He should have known it wouldn’t matter what he decided to believe or to forget. Because if there is one overarching, defining characteristic of Dean Winchester it’s persistence. Dean’s persistence is responsible for his continued existence over thirty years after his death, and for his appearance in Castiel’s bed.

And now he knows what it’s like waking up next to someone whose presence alone sets you alight. 

He peeks up at Dean again. “You’re back. I was worried.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

“I thought maybe—”

“No, I told you, I’m not going anywhere. It just . . . took a lot out of me.” His smile turns sly. “You’re a hell of a workout, Cas.” 

Castiel hums, memory and desire tugging inside him, alive again with confirmation. “So it happened.” 

“Oh yeah. That happened,” Dean practically preens and Castiel laughs. 

They’re quiet then, and Castiel turns the hand resting between them palm up, inviting. Dean moves his hand into place, fingertips translucent in the morning sun, just appearing to touch. Castiel can’t feel it, but in this moment seeing is believing. 

Castiel considers his next words before he says them. It feels right to express the thought, but he’s not sure Dean will understand its importance. He watches their fingers commingle and takes the risk. “I think . . . I think I’m happy.” Only after the words are out does he look up to meet Dean’s gaze. 

Dean’s lips quirk but his eyes are gentle. “I can tell.” 

Castiel plucks at the sheet now, self-conscious with honesty but knowing he needs to acknowledge the truth here, both to help him feel more certain of this new relationship with Dean and to mark the moment for himself. “It’s just— I haven’t been happy much in my life.” 

“I picked up on that, yeah.” 

“I didn’t realize it until moving here, or even more recently than that, really. But now . . . this is good. I don’t know how it’s possible, exactly—how you’re possible,” he squints, slightly embarrassed, “But I’m glad you’re here.” 

He looks at Dean through his eyelashes, surprised to find his expression intense. For a split second Castiel is concerned he overshared, but then Dean blurts, “Fucking Christ I want to kiss you,” and Castiel laughs. 

“You’re welcome to.”

Dean shakes his head. “It’s taking all the mojo I got just to show up. I didn’t want you to keep thinking you’re alone. I mean it, Cas, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I mean, I can’t go anywhere, but also I wouldn’t. You make this place better. Best it’s been in a long, long time.”

Castiel can’t help but reach out to stroke Dean’s temple, even if there’s nothing to connect with. He’s beautiful like this. “Soooo, no kissing?”

Dean chuckles. “Not now. But later, yeah. You know, if you’re lucky.” 

“Mmm, lucky,” Castiel repeats, desire sparking deep again. “Gotta say, I feel pretty lucky.”

Dean sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and lets out a very tortured groan. “Look, I might not be able to help, but—and I’m just putting this out there, you know, for future reference—if you have an itch you gotta scratch, Cas, there ain’t nothing stopping you. Least of all me. I’m just sayin’.”

Castiel grins at the idea.

* 

“So, first big day at the office? How’d it go?”

They’re in the kitchen. Castiel with his suit coat off and tie loose at his neck as he examines his benefits package folder, Dean leaning back in a chair with his boots on the kitchen table. If he weren’t a ghost that would be precarious and unsanitary. 

“Good,” Castiel nods. 

Fingers still interlocked in his lap, Dean opens his palms. “Care to elaborate?”

“It’s a nice company. I’ll have my own office and report directly to the vice president. It’s a very good position.” 

“Yeah but what about all the other stuff? What’s the vibe? Which coworkers can you bitch to without getting ratted out to the boss? Is there a snack machine on your floor? That’s the real stuff you’ve gotta get figured out.” 

Castiel closes the folder and tosses it aside. Technically he can complete the paperwork tomorrow, on company time. After all, he’s promised himself boundaries this time. Work-life balance. 

“The ‘vibe’ is office casual. It’s not anything out of the ordinary. In fact, it might even be painfully ordinary. I met the staff accountants and regional managers, and a young woman from tech support helped me set up my computer and voicemail. We all smiled a lot at each other but I’m not sure I remember anyone’s name. I have no idea where the snack machine is, though there is a lunch room on the second floor, so possibly in there.”

“Wow,” Dean shakes his head in amazement. 

“What?”

“You just described my nightmare.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “It’s a nice change of pace.” 

“From all this?” Dean spreads his arms wide, taking in the kitchen, the whole house, himself, and Castiel cracks a smile. 

“From my previous employer.”

“Ah. The family business, you mean.”

Hearing Dean call it that makes Castiel uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the lilt of judgement in Dean’s voice, or the sting of memory. Either way, it’s odd he never quite thought in those terms while he worked for his father’s firm, under the directorship of his brother. “Yes.”

“You don’t miss them? Your brothers?” Dean’s demeanor shifts as he asks. It’s that thing he does where he feigns a lightheartedness over a deeper, likely darker, unspoken thought. There’s a joke in there about ghosts and transparency Castiel doesn’t quite have the wit to formulate. 

“I miss what it felt like to work together, part of a team. I think I could build that again, hopefully here. But my experience of family wasn’t what you— Well, what you’d call normal, I suppose.”

Dean cocks his head. “That’s not what you were gonna say.” His tone is still deceptively light in a way Castiel doesn’t like. 

“You’re right. I was going to say that my experience of family wasn’t what yours was. I can tell you loved them, cherish the memories of them. It’s in part why you’re here, I suspect. And I know you had a brother, but you barely talk about him.” Castiel moves to join Dean at the table, sliding into a chair beside him and resting a hand palm up, an invitation for a connection. “I’d like to know more, if you’d tell me.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, unclenches. “All right. What do you want to know?” 

“I’d like to know his name,” Castiel says. Sure, he’s gleaned unintentionally dropped details from Dean over the last few months, but basic pieces are missing. And he gets the sense that the fundamentals that make Dean _Dean_ are wrapped up in the puzzle of his family.

“Sam. Younger’n me. Raised the kid myself, mostly, what with Mom dead and Dad a half-functioning drunk.” The kitchen temperature drops a dozen degrees as Dean answers, and his expression remains shuttered.

Castiel ignores the chill and keeps his focus on Dean. “I see. That must’ve been difficult.”

Dean throws him a look. “You sound like a shrink.” 

“You probably need a shrink,” he replies placidly. “We both do.”

That makes Dean shift, but he continues. “They didn’t get along, him and Dad. Got so good at peacekeeping at home, figured I’d go work on it overseas and joined up with the Marines.”

And there they are, little emotional dominoes lining up like soldiers. Castiel’s chest aches. He wishes he could fold Dean’s hand in his. Instead, Dean’s arms are crossed, feet still on the table. 

“That was Vietnam, then.”

“Yeah. Sam was pissed I left and pissed I wasn’t there when dad died, so when I got back I made a promise—never take off again. Stay put. See it through. And I did. I kept up my end.”

Implied in there is that Sam somehow didn’t keep up his, and—ah, yes, now there they go. Castiel pictures those dominoes tipping one into the next. Dean died and then rejected a reaper. He chose to stay and became a ghost. All for his brother, a brother who he raised and believes he abandoned, so he’s been atoning ever since.

Oh, Dean. 

Castiel reaches to put a hand on Dean’s thigh, and they both watch it pass right through. He makes a fist and swallows down the subsequent sadness—sadness that he can’t comfort Dean, and because there’s so much that needs comforting. “You obviously loved him a lot. What happened to him? Is he—?”

“Dead? Hell if I know.” Dean swings the chair back to four legs and drops his boots to the floor. “Good talk, Cas. Send me the bill.” And with a flurry of cabinet doors slapping open, he’s gone.

Castiel frowns at the space where Dean disappeared. Clearly that last question had been the wrong one for the moment, but he tells himself not to feel bad for asking. Dean’s hurt over Sam and whatever happened between them is what makes him resistant to talking, even if his emotions manifest in other ways. 

The realization he’s left with is the same one he started with: his and Dean’s experiences of family have been so very, so vastly different. His older brother never loved him the way Dean loves Sam. Dean sacrificed everything for Sam, while Castiel was sacrificed to Michael’s plan. Both circumstances were unfair, but he doubts Dean would ever see it that way.

*

_Dean can’t believe this shit. There’s gotta be two hundred people here, easy, hoisting signs and chanting, “Hell no, we won’t go!” He squints against the sun and scans the crowd. Everyone looks like Sam. Dean hadn’t realized there was a uniform—all lank hair and bell bottom corduroys. Twenty minutes with some scissors he’d have the whole lot cleaned up._

_And anyway, this is a college campus. Shouldn’t these kids be in class? Yeah, sure, just skip out on that education mommy and daddy are paying for so you can protest a war you can’t begin to fucking understand. Fine, America should clear out, Dean won’t argue that. He joined up for a lot of reasons that had nothing to do with killing Vietnamese kids. It’s not like he wanted to get shipped to the jungle, it’s just where he ended up, and there isn’t a day he doesn’t have to shut his eyes against some godforsaken something that lurks in his memory. But these hippie assholes don’t know a damn thing about that hell he almost didn’t live through._

_How Sam got mixed up in this nonsense, well. That becomes obvious once Dean spots him._

_He’s with a girl. Brunette, braless. Her crop top reveals a petite waist and rounded hips. She’s wearing big red sunglasses and holding a sign that reads “Girls say yes to men who say no.” There’s no doubt she’s said yes to Sam a couple times._

_Goddammit, Sam._

_This crap has been going on for years, since before Sam even started college, and Sam knows it’s dangerous. They’ve talked about it. There’s a track record. In ’69 anti-war brats busted down a gate on Memorial Stadium to mess up some ROTC ceremony, last spring somebody set fire to the Kansas Union, and just before Christmas a fucking bomb exploded in the Computation Center._

_Alright, so maybe students knew more about chaos and violence than Dean was giving them credit for. But they were doing it to themselves, and how was blowing up campus supposed to stop Nixon from dropping bombs on Cambodia anyway?_

_“Sammy!” Dean bellows, taking wide strides between patchouli-scented bodies to get to him._

_Sam whips around and his eyes widen. He immediately glances at the girl and other fellow protestors nearby, affecting an untroubled stance, even though he’s obviously nervous now. Dean sticks out like a sore thumb with his short hair, leather jacket, jeans, combat boots—everything this crowd despises—and he’s aimed at Sam like an arrow._

_“What’re you doing here?” Sam demands when Dean finally breaks through the waving fists and signs._

_Dean flicks his fingers for Sam to follow him. “C’mon. Time to go.”_

_“No.”_

_Dean doesn’t say anything. His version of the glare their dad used to give them is enough—now isn’t the time for Sam to disobey an order, but he knows better than to say it like that here._

_“Dean, this is Ruby,” Sam deflects. Ruby looks up at him, clearly not thrilled to be literally pushed into the middle of this disagreement by Sam’s hand at her back, but she mocks up a smile to throw at Dean._

_“Hey,” Dean nods and immediately ignores her. “You gotta get out of here. C’mon, the car’s not far.” He steps forward to latch a hand on Sam’s elbow, but Sam gives him the slip._

_“I said no. This is a peaceful protest. We’re not leaving.”_

_Dean peers back the way he came, toward a gathering cluster of police uniforms._

_“‘Peaceful’ my ass. This thing is gonna go bad, Sam. You can come to the next one but we gotta get out of here.”_

_“Oh how nice of you to give me permission,” Sam snaps back._

_Dean squeezes his fingers into fists, takes a deep breath, and counts to three. “I’m not kidding around. I heard from a guy at Bobby’s that there’s a plant. They’re gonna stir shit up.”_

_“What? Who would do that?” Sam looks down at Ruby. “Do you know anything about that?” Ruby doesn’t say no, and her expression isn’t as innocent as Dean suspects Sam expected. “But—”_

_“No buts. Start moving.” Dean spins Sam by the shoulder and ushers him in the opposite direction from where the crowd feels like it’s drifting. He can see the flicker of flames held aloft along what’s becoming the first line of demonstrators. Draft cards burning, probably._

_Sam stumbles a few steps with him but then stops and holds fast. “No, I’m not leaving. You’re not the boss of me, Dean. You’re not Dad.”_

_That’s it. Dean’s done with Sam’s shit. He shoves in close and shoves his finger in his brother’s face. “You’re right, I’m not. Because if I were Dad, I’d’ve smacked your smart mouth and be dragging your ass outta here. I’m not doing that, but you are coming with me. Now.”_

_Ruby skates a hand down Sam’s arm to get his attention and points a thumb toward the shifting crowd. The chanting has turned into disorganized yelling. “They need us.” She assesses Dean over her sunglasses. “You better shake it, big brother. We’ve got work to do.”_

_The burning drafts cards have turned into an open fire on the ground with signs and trash being thrown in as fuel. Dean sees at least one billy club in the hands of an officer. One spark away from a riot, all of it._

_“Don’t be stupid, Sam,” Dean says knows immediately it was the exact wrong thing as he stares stubbornly into his brother’s pinched, hurt face._

_There’s a shout. A crack. A roar of anger._

_Ruby disappears into the crush of people and Sam shuffles a couple unhappy steps away from Dean before turning to follow her. “Sam!” Dean yells, but it’s no use._

_The guy at Bobby’s had said the goal was to make national news by goading nonviolent protest into a fight. Dean wasn’t sure who that was supposed to help anything, but judging from the frenzy in front of him, the plan was in motion. Some of the more sensible students wised up and started running away, widening his view of the scene. Police are pushing forward in a loose line, some physically propelling hippie bodies backward._

_Sam’s head is still visible above most others. Dean grumbles under his breath, not debating whether to go after him so much as cussing Sam out for making it necessary. He curses and barges forward._

_It smells like smoke, like sweat and fear, and it takes every ounce of willpower Dean has to stay focused and not listen to the sound of chopper blades that crowd into his brain. He dodges elbows and signs. Someone takes a swing, and Dean lays the fool out flat in seconds on instinct. He keeps moving. In the thick of the bodies it’s harder to pick out Sam. Just as he spots Sam’s shoulders, a gunshot smacks the air and everyone sinks to knees and pavement._

_“Sam!” Dean screams, hands over the back of his neck, peering up without standing up, scanning nearby building windows for a shooter. There had been a sniper trying to pick off firemen the night the computer building burned and why is shit this fucked up? “Goddammit,” he mutters and gets into a cautious crouch, “SAM!”_

_By some miracle, Sam hears him and spins, loose hair whipping past his cheek, eyes dinner plates of panic. A cop is dragging a kicking Ruby away by the elbows, and for chrissakes is that a knife she’s holding? The red shine under Sam’s eye suggests he’s already taken a hit._

_Dean gets his hands on Sam, clutches his shirt and pulls him away from the cops, from Ruby. Words pour off his tongue as he tries to keep the cop nearest him calm, the way they used to in the middle of a fight between Dad and Sam. Hey, man. My kid brother. We’re going. Take it easy. Let me just get him—_

_One swift bite of a baton against his temple and he doesn’t remember anything else._

*

“Alright, look. I’m an asshole,” Dean says when Castiel arrives home from work the next day.

Castiel still has one hand on the front door knob and the mail held between his teeth.

“We have a good thing going, I think. I mean, it’s not normal. Like, in a lot of ways. But I want it to be good, and”—Castiel wriggles his keys out of the lock and takes the mail from his mouth, managing to close the door with his foot—“that means I can’t be an asshole and make everything about me. So, I’m sorry.”

Dean releases a breath and lets his fists bounce nervously against his sides. Castiel smiles softly.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.” Hope straightens Dean’s posture a little, like an eager teenager.

“And thank you. Apology accepted.” 

Castiel had been disappointed not to see Dean the rest of last night or this morning, but he hadn’t thought about it in those terms—Dean acting like an asshole, making a situation about himself. And yet, there were elements of truth there, and the fact that Dean had evidently been stewing about it was endearing. He moves over to his desk and flips through the mail, unshouldering his bag onto the chair. 

Dean lingers in the entryway, translucent in the evening sun. “Okay, so let’s start over. Hi, honey, welcome home. How was your day?”

Castiel laughs and plops the mail on the desk. “‘Honey’? How domestic.” Dean doesn’t take strides, exactly, but he does appear suddenly much closer, intentionally crowding Castiel against his desk using mostly his hands and hips that don’t touch. 

“House ghost,” Dean says, leaning in, mouth hovering close to Castiel’s. “Can’t get more domestic than that.” 

The feeling of the kiss is faint but satisfying, like lips meeting a cool glass on a hot day. 

“I found the snack machine today,” Castiel says when Dean pulls back. 

“Ha! Now you’re talking,” Dean smirks. 

“But I’d also like to be able to ask you questions, to know more about your past. This thing—us—it’s not exactly normal, as you said.” Castiel drags a fingertip along Dean’s jaw, delineating the air where its edge should be, imagining he could feel the scruff of Dean’s light five o’clock shadow. “And I don’t mind that, but I do mind you shutting me out.” 

Dean’s lips press into a thin line and he nods. “Okay. Yeah. That’s fair.” 

“Good,” Castiel bobs his head affirmatively, then begins tugging his tie loose. “Now I’m going to go change and then I’m going to fix myself an after-work cocktail and sit on my porch with my ghost boyfriend, and you’re going to tell me about Sam.” 

Dean chuckles, but that’s what they do. 

Twenty minutes later, Dean’s leaning back in one of the new Adirondack deck chairs, boots on the porch railing, while Castiel sips a gin and tonic, knees up and bare feet crossed at the ankles on the seat in front of him. “So. Sam,” he prompts.

“Yeah,” Dean dusts a hand at his knee, thinking. “Sam and me, things didn’t end good. Had sort of a fight. I don’t know how much you know about the war protests at KU, but Sam was at one that turned pretty bad. I tried to get him to leave but some dick cop clocked me with his baton and that was lights out.”

Alarm kicks up in Castiel. “You were killed by campus police?” Surely that would’ve made headlines. He could ask Meg for the newspaper articles.

“What? No. No,” Dean huffs, bitter. “The jackass probably gave me a concussion but that wasn’t what did me in. That was, uh. That was the car accident. Sam was driving me home after,” he gestures to his head. “He was real worked up about the fight, about my getting hurt, and then this fucking trucker just outta nowhere, WHAM.” Dean sweeps the heel of his hand into air, smashing it against an invisible wall. “Blindsides us. Scrapes the Impala off the highway. Sam got jostled but me? Two days in a coma and I don’t wake up. Random fucking tragedy.” 

Dean is squinting angrily at the sunset and Castiel doesn’t reach for him, though he wants to. Instead he spins the liquid in his glass carefully, until a drip of sweat breaks free and lands on the top of his foot, and waits for Dean to find his voice again.

“He thinks it’s his fault. It wasn’t. Courts charged the trucker with vehicular manslaughter, but Sammy . . .” Dean shakes his head. “He never stopped blaming himself.” 

“I’m sorry, Dean.” That’s hardly enough, but it’s the only thing Castiel can think to say, so he weighs down the words with as much empathy as he can. He’d made a lot of guesses about Dean’s cause of death over the last few months and a car accident had been one of them, but the circumstances surrounding it—that Sam had been driving Dean’s baby, that Dean had just been injured trying to protect Sam. A random tragedy, Dean called it, and yes. That’s exactly what it was, and the injustice of that claws at Castiel. 

Not that he needed Dean’s death to have been symbolic or grand or for him to die a hero. It doesn’t change how he feels about him. They’d still be skating the bounds of reality and the laws of what Castiel thought he knew about physics with this strange relationship. But maybe because of how he feels for Dean and because they find themselves together in this way, the randomness and unfairness strike him deeper. 

“I tried to tell him, so many times,” Dean continues, “But Sammy he just . . . Well, he left anyway.”

Castiel looks up and cocks his head, realizing something very important for the first time. “You spoke with your brother? After, I mean. As a ghost?” 

Dean frowns as if that’s obvious. “Well, yeah. I told you about how I said no to that reaper. I did it for Sam. I made him the same promise I made you—I’m not going anywhere. And if passing on is a choice, well, I chose to stay. This is home.”

Oh, Dean.

Castiel isn’t aware he’d said the words aloud until he sees Dean’s face pinch defensively. He closes his eyes against tears and the shattered beat of his heart and searches for the words to let Dean know he’s feeling for him, not judging him. “You’re remarkable.” 

Still, though, Castiel thinks of Sam. Of a young man wracked with guilt over the loss of his older brother, his last remaining family member. And then that young man finds his brother has rejected peace, has chosen to stay in their home and pretend nothing has changed, to dog his steps and probably playfully hide his college textbooks. 

He doesn’t blame Sam for leaving. He also understands why Dean does. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Castiel says, voice raspier than expected. “I’m sorry for what happened but I’m glad you shared that.”

Dean leans forward, elbows on his knees and half smile pointed at the porch floor boards. “You sound like a shrink again, Cas.” 

“In that case, care to join me on my couch?” Castiel asks. He gets to his feet and stretches, rolling his shoulders and letting pins and needles work their way out of his legs.

“What for?” But he’s sitting up with a palm planted on one knee, eyes tracing Castiel’s movements.

“Probably leftovers for dinner followed by _Dr. Sexy_. Or something sexy, anyway.” 

Dean beams. “Lead the way.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Don’t go.”

Castiel’s insides feel gooey soft at the sight of Dean pouting in the front entryway. He even looks appropriately—enticingly—rumpled in just his henley and jeans. No extra layers, no boots. The way Dean holds his own elbows with his arms crossed reads as insecure, even as he gives a confident toss of his chin toward the stairs.

“Skip work. Come back to bed.” 

Castiel reaches for his trench coat from the hook near the door and slides his arms in. Mornings are chilly these days. “I think Anna would have a problem if I started playing hooky already.” 

“It’s been two months. When do the benefits kick in?” 

“The ‘benefits’ are a paycheck and reward for a job well done, neither of which I receive if I don’t go to the office,” Castiel argues with a smile. 

Dean hrrrumphs into a sulk against the front door. 

“Buck up, soldier. I’ll be back for dinner and we’ll work on the bookshelves later.” 

It’s a happy routine Castiel has now. During the day he drives to his perfectly ordinary job with his polite, apolitical coworkers who talk about TV shows and sports; he meets with clients about their investment portfolios; and sometimes walks over to the library to sit in a nearby park with Meg during his lunch hour. In the evening, he comes home to Dean. They talk while Castiel makes dinner, they plan and complete projects around the house together, they watch TV so Castiel can keep up with the water cooler chat at the office, they’re intimate. They live together. 

Except, they don’t. Because Dean isn’t living and can’t follow Castiel into the rest of his life. By Dean’s logic, this means Castiel shouldn’t leave either, and lately he’s been launching these little campaigns for Castiel to stay.

“We’d be finished by now if it weren’t for your job.”

They’ve been building inset bookshelves in the living room, something Dean’s mother had apparently always wanted but no one ever got around to. If Castiel were still thinking about things like equity and resale value, he wouldn’t be spending time on a project that doesn’t substantially change quality of life in the house. Instead he thinks about quality of life with Dean, of what it means to build something with someone. And a little bit about how they are making their mark on Dean’s history together, sappy as that is.

“There’s no hurry. We’ll get it done.”

Castiel holds up his hand, palm open facing Dean and fingers spread loose, an invitation. Dean lets go of his mope and mirrors the gesture, interlocking his ghost fingers with Castiel’s solid ones. Castiel kisses the fist they’ve made together—it’s a little like pressing his lips to a popsicle—and Dean gives up a smile. 

“I’ll see you later.” He stops short of adding  _ I love you _ . The words have been making their way to his tongue increasingly often, but he’s unsure what saying them aloud might mean, or do, or change. 

“Later,” Dean nods, and the front door unlatches and opens as he disappears. 

*

Castiel people watches as he chews his sandwich—this week is salami. The dog walkers, the moms with toddlers in strollers, the queue at the taco truck down the path all appear equally glad to be out enjoying the early autumn air. Returning to office life hasn’t been soul-crushing, but getting outdoors during the day ensures that stays true. It was pure serendipity that he took a job within walking distance of the library. Meg sits beside him on what’s become their bench in the park, stabbing at the carrots in her salad to get them on her fork.

“You sure look happy lately, angel.” 

“Thank you,” Castiel says after a swallow. “I am.” 

She lifts a questioning eyebrow and crunches into a successfully caught carrot. He knows he owes her explanation. It’s beyond time. He’s been holding back because avoiding specifics about Dean’s . . . condition . . . will be difficult under Meg’s sharp inquisitiveness, and if he does trip up and let the ghost out of the bag, he’s worried she’ll tell him to stop. Her past experience with the paranormal was dark and frightening. It may not matter that Dean was technically the one who saved her, she may advocate banishing him again. And that thought fills Castiel’s chest with an empty ache.

“So?”

“So. I met someone.” Preventing his smile is impossible. 

Meg jabs her lettuce-filled fork into the space between them. “I knew it! Keep talking. What’s his name? Where’d you meet?”

Her pointed use of the male pronoun doesn’t go unnoticed. Clearly she had filled in some details for herself after their aborted after-dinner kiss. 

“Dean. And we met—well, he’s been helping with the house.” 

“Ooh, a handyman?”

“Of sorts.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “I’m not a dentist, Clarence. Stop making me pull teeth.”

Castiel chews another bite of sandwich and squints across the park at a jogger who stopped to tie a shoe while he searches his brain for strategic details. 

“He’s a few years younger than me, technically. And even though he has this, this excitement for life and the most mundane things, there’s something deep and world-weary about him. He’s a good man. A good soul.”

Based on the flat stare Meg is giving him, Castiel may as well have told her his favorite hobby is watching paint dry (which had been true for a couple months). “Yeah, okay, great. Is he hot?”

Meg and Dean may have more in common than Castiel first imagined. 

“Yes. He’s also a former Marine.” 

Meg swings her surprise into a low whistle of approval. “You’ve really been holding out on me. Sounds like you’ve landed yourself quite a catch.” 

“It’s all still very new. We— There are complications, but—”

“Oh. Shit, is he not out?” True sympathy sneaks through Meg’s bravado, and even though it twinges Castiel’s conscience to take advantage of that, he sees a way forward in being able to talk about Dean. 

“I don’t know if he’s told his family. And we haven’t been out on a date together yet.” Neither of those things are lies, strictly speaking. “But he’s definitely—um. The attraction is mutual.” 

“I’ll be damned, Clarence. You got laid!” 

Castiel is certain he hasn’t blushed this much since junior high. He pretends redness isn’t creeping up his cheeks by folding his sandwich baggy and tucking it back into his lunch sack so the breeze won’t take it, but his heart is kicking up cartwheels and he still can’t stop smiling.

“Alright, I won’t be pushy about meeting him. But we will meet. And I will grill him about his intentions toward you.” 

Castiel doesn’t know how he’ll arrange such a meeting quite yet, but he’s at least bought himself some time, thankfully. “Okay. Agreed.” 

“It’s cute you thought that might be optional,” Meg says as she spears a cucumber.

*

“Dean?” 

There has to be an explanation for this. This isn’t the result of forgetfulness—Castiel wouldn’t forget emptying the contents of his closet and dresser onto his bed. And floor. And bedroom chair. Oh, and the linen closet has been dumped into the hallway too. 

“Dean!”

He’d been out running errands for most of the day and stopped for coffee with Zeke, a friend from work, downtown. When he came upstairs to change into lounging-around wear, he found his dresser drawers agape, drooling jeans and t-shirts, and every suit jacket, dress shirt, and pair of slacks he owned in a crumpled mountain of blacks and blues and grays on the bed. He didn’t notice the pile of towels on the floor until he stepped back in the hall to look for Dean, as though he was naughty a puppy Castiel might catch hiding nearby.

“Dean. Now.” 

Dean finally materializes in the hallway, looking mostly see-through and a little annoyed. “I’m here, I’m here. Jesus. What’s up?”

Castiel points an angry finger toward his bedroom. 

Dean ignores his glower. “Oh hey, is this a booty call? Well then, by all means, let me—oh. Uh. Hate to break it to you, Cas, but the bed’s occupied.”

“This isn’t funny, Dean.” Castiel already resolved himself to paying an extremely generous tip to a dry cleaner for the amount of ironing and steaming it will take to make any of it wearable again.

“Yeah, I’m picking up on that. What happened?”

“You tell me.”

Dean scratches his forehead with a thumbnail. “Earthquake?”

Castiel throws up his hands and lands them on his hips. “Obviously not. This has ghost hijinks written all over it.”

“‘Hijinks’?” Dean’s grinning squint is affectionate, but Castiel refuses to be charmed out of his anger. 

“You’re the expert here. I’ve learned enough to know these things don’t just happen.”

“Wait, you think I did this?”

Yes, in fact, Castiel does think that but he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. Putting the suspicion into words makes it suddenly seem ridiculous. “Is there something—someone—else around?”

“Hell no,” Dean’s pride flusters like bird feathers. “This place is tight. Nobody in or out since you moved in. Unless you busted out that dumb board when I wasn’t looking.” 

“Alright, then. That leaves one of us.”

“I didn’t do it! I hit the morning  _ MacGyver _ reruns right after you left and then, I dunno, just kicked it for a while. No hijinks, I swear.”

Castiel closes his eyes and pushes a finger at the spot in his temple where a headache is forming. “There’s no other explanation, Dean.” 

A chill grazes at Castiel’s cheek and he opens his eyes to see Dean’s worried face looking back at him.

“Hey, hey. This is weird. I get it. I’ll be on the lookout better, okay? But I swear I don’t know what happened.” 

“Fine.” Castiel sighs and avoids Dean’s gaze by staring at the pile of wilted business wear. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Dean is telling the truth. He just doesn’t quite believe Dean knows the truth. There’s something weird going on. 

But, it’s only laundry. It’s not like anything was destroyed. 

“Will you help me fold?”

* 

The sky is dark by the time Castiel gets home. It’s been a long week of late nights as he works with his team running scenarios on a tricky merger. He plunks his keys in their dish and flops the mail on the table by the door and bends down to untie his laces before stepping out of his shoes. The shoes get placed on the stairs, ready to be carried up later, and the mail comes with him to the kitchen. It’s quite a stack—he hasn’t bothered to check it this week.

He makes his way to the kitchen and aims an unerring elbow at the light switch. He plops down the mail on the counter and loosens his tie before frowning at a utilities bill as he mindlessly fetches tuna noodle casserole leftovers from the fridge for dinner.

Leftovers in the microwave, beer uncapped, Castiel picks up the final piece of mail.

If seeing the Angelus envelope is a shock, the letter itself is a lightning bolt that strikes Castiel where he stands, suddenly scorched and hollow. 

_ Dear Castiel Novak, We are pleased to offer you the position of Chief Risk Management Officer. _

The microwave beeps. Castiel ignores it.

He reads that sentence a second time. A third. It doesn’t help wring more sense from the words. 

“Whatcha got there?” Dean props his chin over Castiel’s shoulder—no warmth or weight, just a cool, nosy presence. 

Castiel forces himself to read past that opening line. The rest of the few short paragraphs are standard employment-offer language. 

_ This is a full-time position reporting directly to . . . .  _

_ We will be offering you an annual gross salary of . . .  _

_ We are also proud to offer a benefits package including . . . .  _

Dean jerks away before Castiel’s nerves can even process movement again.

“What the actual fuck.”

Castiel finally tears his eyes from the letter to look up. Dean’s face is all pointed anger, daggers of concern lines in his forehead and pinched unspoken cuss words at his mouth. “I know.”

“He fired you!” 

“I know.”

“And now he just expects you to, what, show up on a Monday like nothing happened?”

“Probably, yes.” That’s exactly what Michael would expect—unwavering loyalty, no matter what. In fact it’s likely Michael believes this is a magnanimous offer on his part, welcoming Castiel back to the fold, extending him protection and promising wealth despite his unworthiness. 

The microwave beeps a reminder. 

“Well? Are you gonna go?”

Castiel frowns down at the letter, at the sleek Angelus logo with its subtle halo. He scans the paragraphs again, searching for any personal detail, reading between the lines, between the cotton weave of the paper, anything. 

There’s only  _ Please feel free to contact me should you have any questions. Signed, Michael Novak, CEO Angelus _ .

He has many questions. All of them hurt too much to ask. 

The spark of tears at his eyes tighten his throat. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know. What do you mean you don’t know.” Dean crosses his arms, ready to block out anything he doesn’t want to hear. 

“I mean there must be a reason they sent me this letter, Dean. They must need me.”

“Bullshit.”

Castiel winces. “That’s unfair.”

“No, telling you to give up your life—again—after they’re the ones who gave you the boot is unfair.”

He’s not wrong, but— “Aren’t you always advocating for family? Wouldn’t you have helped Sam if he asked you?”

The overhead light dims and surges and dims again and for a moment Dean’s eyes shade dark. He points an accusing finger. “That’s different and you know it.” 

The microwave beeps a second reminder and this time Castiel attends to it, pulling out his half warmed dinner and getting a fork because he can’t think of something else to say. He doesn’t want this—any of this. To be asked back. To be arguing with Dean. To not know what’s best.

“Well?” Dean pushes.

“Well what?”

“Are you leaving?” 

Castiel drops into a chair at the kitchen table and buries his face in his hands. “I don’t know, Dean. I don’t know what this means. I just . . . need to think, okay?”

Dean’s fury is held back by pursed lips and jaw clench. “Yeah, okay. You think.” 

But he disappears with an explosion of energy—the lightbulb overhead bursts, every cabinet door in the kitchen slams open, and Castiel stares down at his now-cold casserole in the dark. 

* 

Castiel doesn’t see Dean for a time after that. It’s lonely. Extra lonely, after he tells Meg work is too busy to meet her for lunch because he can’t face her probing questions about his new, hot boyfriend. A pit opens in his stomach every evening Dean fails to materialize.

But Dean’s not entirely absent. 

Things start to move again. Everyday things. Castiel reaches for a knife and the butcher block skids across the counter. He comes home to find a vase of flowers he received as a gift from a client dumped on the dining room floor. The handset for the landline goes missing on Sunday and doesn’t show up on the cradle again until Tuesday. One morning the entire contents of all kitchen cupboards are instead strewn around the kitchen floor—unbroken, unopened, but stacked and toppled in absolutely no order, leaving almost no room to walk.

At night there are knocking sounds in the walls. Sometimes the knocks are downstairs while Castiel is upstairs, sometimes they follow him from room to room. Once there’s a crack loud enough to wake him. He actually gets up to go looking for a snapped tree branch, but goes back to bed positive it’s only Dean. Heartache doesn’t let him sleep, though. 

The scariest is the morning he’s in the shower and hears the faint sound of the downstairs toilet flushing. As the cold water rushes to refill the toilet tank, the shower spray turns scalding. Castiel shouts and dodges, smacking his shin on the edge of the clawfoot tub as he clambers out. He ignores the mean snicker that floats through the house, but that’s the moment he begins to wonder if he’ll get Dean back. His Dean. 

The Dean who once slow danced to the radio with him in the living room. The Dean whose impossible kisses were also deep and lingering and worth the hours of absence afterward. That Dean had never done anything more dangerous than swap the placement of Castiel’s toothpaste and muscle cream, and then showed up slapping his knee when the difference in smell caused Castiel to do a double take.

Castiel towels off, willing his heartbeat to slow and telling himself he’s fine, and wonders if this Dean is more like one who forced decades of homeowners from the house. He’d forgotten that Dean existed. 

*

_ Something urgent pulls him awake and wrenches him upright. A gasp, deep and seizing.  _

_ Where—? Home. But why? And how? _

_ Dean twists his legs over the side of the bed and tries to get a grip.  _

_ It was a nightmare, that’s all. He must’ve fallen asleep. In the middle of the day. Fully clothed, with his boots on. In his bedroom. Not that it couldn’t happen, but that’s not what he remembers.  _

_ Come to think of it, he doesn’t remember much of anything. He woke up scared, but of what? ’Nam? He knows guys this has happened to—they wake up screaming, not recalling they came home months or years ago. But that’s not it. The wet rice paddy air and sweat-crisp uniform stink aren’t what’s at the back of his brain.  _

_ He’s home, and before he was home he was . . . He was at work. The radio was on in Bobby’s shop and Dean was leaning over a carburetor while some guy mouthed off about war protestors and how the hippies on campus— _

_ “Sam!” Dean’s on his feet and down the hall. Sam’s not in his bedroom, but he wouldn’t be this late in the day. Dean thunders down the stairs, whips into the living room—not there—then back around toward the kitchen. “Sammy?”  _

_ Sam’s there, at the kitchen table with Bobby.  _

_ “Oh thank Christ,” Dean slouches against the door frame. “You guys shouldn’t’a let me sleep. Really did a number on my noggin, you know? Almost forgot I . . .” _

_ Forgot that he what? But also, “Hey! Fellas.” Dean whistles. Neither man turns toward him.  _

_ “What’s the joke, huh? You bustin’ my balls for something?” He stalks toward the table and reaches out to shove Sam on the shoulder. His hand passes through Sam instead.  _

_ “What the—” Dean tries again with the same effect.  _

_ He waves a hand in front of Sam’s face, snaps in front of Bobby’s. Nothing. They say a couple words to each other, but are mostly quiet. Quiet and sad.  _

_ “Hey, no, hang on a second. You guys are acting like, like . . .” _

_ “Like someone died?” a soft voice asks from behind him and Dean swings around.  _

_ “Who’re you?” _

_ There’s a woman standing in the doorway to the hall, where Dean had been just moments before. She shrugs. “A friend.” _

_ She’s got chin-length dark hair and big, sad eyes. She’s pretty, but Dean’s never seen her before so she’s sure as hell not a friend.  _

_ “My name is Tessa. I’m here to help. Passing on can be difficult and it helps to have someone with you when it’s time to go.” _

_ “Lady, I’m not going anywhere with you. This is my house and that’s my brother. I’m right where I belong, but you should probably shake it.” He tosses his chin and a glance toward the door.  _

_ Tessa’s sad eyes get sadder, like Dean’s breaking her heart, like she’d hug him if she could. “Dean, you’ve died. You’re here to say goodbye, but this can’t be your home anymore. You need to move on.” Her voice is gentler than goose down. _

_ Died. Dead. He’s dead. It clicks in that of-course kind of way. That’s the thing he couldn’t remember.  _

_ “Yeah, no shit I’m dead. But I’m not going anywhere.” _

_ She nods. “I understand, I do. There’re a lot of memories here. And your brother. But he’ll be alright, Dean. He has support and a whole life ahead of him. If you don’t come with me, though, I can’t say the same for you.” _

_ Dean glares at her. “Cut the cryptic. What’s that mean?” _

_ “It means, this is it. This is your one chance for peace, for rest. Everybody only gets one.” _

__ _ “But it’s a choice, right? I go and ‘rest’ or I stay? That’s a no brainer.” _

_ Tessa hugs her arms. “I can’t make you come with me. So yes, you can stay. But you’ll stay here for years. Disembodied, scared. And over the decades it’ll probably drive you mad. Maybe you’ll even get violent. Spirits who can’t let go, can’t move on—the world moves on without them. And they get bitter. They get mean. And there’s no escape. Is that what you want? An eternity of anger?” _

_ “No. Won’t happen.” _

_ “Dean—” _

_ “Look, if it’s a choice to stay, it’s also a choice how I spend my forever. Seems to me I can get plenty of rest right here.” _

_ “It’s not that easy,” Tessa says, equally gentle and insistent.  _

_ Dean chuckles. “Mom died when I was four. Dad hit the bottle more often than he hit me. I got dropped into a jungle to kill kids for my country and ended up watching buddies lose body parts, then came home to raise my kid brother. And now I’m dead before thirty. Any of that sound easy to you?” _

_ “All the more reason—” _

_ He cuts her off with a sharp shake of his head and an arm pointing at the door. “All the more reason you need to go.” _

_ “Okay,” Tessa concedes. But instead of walking away, she moves in close and rests a hand over where Dean’s heart should be beating. “You’re a rare breed, Dean Winchester. I’ve never met a soul so determined to live just for the sake of living, to stay for the sake of staying. And I’ve met a lot of souls. I wish you luck.”  _

_ She kisses his cheek and then she’s gone. Just, gone. Dean blinks and spins, but there’s no one else. Only Sam with his head on his arms, sobbing, and Bobby with one hand rubbing Sam’s back and the other pinching tears from his own eyes.  _

_ Dean sucks in a breath he realizes he doesn’t need and squares his shoulders.  _

_ Step 1 in Dean Winchester’s Plan for Eternity: figure out how the hell to get attention. _

*

Dean reappears on a rainy autumn Sunday morning. Castiel has already been up to make coffee but returned to bed to curl up with his mug and a book on home office design.

He’s reading about  practical, innovative possibilities for work spaces when a shift in the drab sunlight makes him look up. 

Dean’s seated at the foot of the bed, one knee on the mattress, other foot planted on the floor, and staring at his fidgeting hands in his lap. 

Castiel takes a sip of coffee and doesn’t say hello. Relief washes over him like rain drops, though, sprinkles of hope, and his heart steps up its tempo. 

“Hey, Cas.” 

“Dean.”

“How, uh, how you been?”

Castiel closes the book, tucking a finger in the pages to mark his place, and looks directly at Dean. “Not well.” 

Dean flinches but nods. “I was out of line before. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I’m sorry.”

This is becoming a pattern Castiel doesn’t like. Dean behaves abominably then shows up contrite and expecting forgiveness. And Castiel gives it to him, because Dean is inspiring and heartbreaking and beautiful and gives Castiel life in a way he’d never recognized he needed.

“It’s been very lonely without you. But you also scared me. I didn’t deserve that.”

“Scared you? Cas, I—” Dean’s impulse is to reach out and wrap a hand around Castiel’s blanket-covered ankle. His hand bounces midair just before making contact, weighing the energy needed and whether it’s wanted. He follows through, though, and the touch brings a prick of tears to Castiel’s eyes. It’s been over a week.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. My temper gets the best of me sometimes and it’s a dick move to just walk away, I know. Sam used to tell me that too.” 

Castiel cocks his head. “Sam was right. But I meant the pranks.” It’s the nicest word he can come up with.

Dean is clearly baffled. “Pranks?”

“Objects moved and disappeared. The toilet flushed during a shower and nearly burned me.”

“Whoa, hey. That wasn’t me. I mean, the hot water thing is a stunt Sam and I used to pull on each other, but Cas, I didn’t do those things.”

Castiel tugs his knees up to his chest, moving out from under Dean’s touch. “I heard you laugh.” 

“Fuck.” Dean’s head sinks and he rubs his eyes. 

The rain on the roof is the only sound for a while as Castiel waits for an explanation. He doesn’t know why Dean would lie about haunting him. But he also knows what he experienced, what he heard.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to square this, Cas. I swear it wasn’t me, but something happened to you and that—” Dean shakes his head as his voice breaks. “Damn. The last thing I want is you to be scared of me. Not you, not ever.”

He’s telling the truth. Castiel doesn’t know how, but both things are true: Dean haunted and scared him and Dean truthfully did not and would never purposefully do those things.

“I believe you.” 

Dean drags his hands over his head, scrubbing his hair with his fingertips like he’s trying to clear away cobwebs of doubt. “I get it if you don’t. I’m not sure I can believe me.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Dean huffs through a broken smile. 

Castiel makes a decision then. It’s not that he thinks it will help resolve whatever’s happening with Dean. But he wants it to be clear, in case. In case of what, he doesn’t know. Just, in case.

“I love you, Dean Winchester.” He leans forward and extends an upright open palm. 

Dean’s smile quavers at the sight but he meets Castiel’s palm and intertwines their fingers. He bends down to kiss their knuckles, a nip of cold. “Same, Cas. Same.” 


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel arrives home the next day to find the mailbox empty. Dean must’ve checked the mail, and Castiel smiles at the gesture. Sure enough, there’s a letter on the entryway table, envelope already sliced open and page unfolded. He spots the Angelus logo and guesses that’s why Dean opened it before Castiel returned.

He lifts the paper and is surprised to see handwriting this time. The message is short, scrawled in the center of the page, but it doesn’t need to say more. 

_ Come home. – M _

The personal touch. This is a change in tactic for Michael, a sign he recognizes that his first attempt was missing what Castiel wanted. And, damn him, it’s effective. 

Castiel looks up from the letter, blinking back a blur of angry tears. He’s about to call for Dean when he sees it.

The new living room bookcases are destroyed. 

Not in slight disarray. Not just a board out of place. Destroyed. One of the frames he and Dean built has been yanked from the wall leaving gouges in the plaster where the support screws used to be. The shelves of both built-ins are all cracked down their center, cascading into and over one another like a lost game of Jenga. Castiel steps carefully around the wood splinters that litter the floor as he surveys the damage.

All that careful work—their measuring and sanding and staining—all in shambles. Tears threaten a return even before Castiel sees that’s not all. There are scrapes along all every wall in the living room, like a drag of claw marks through his first-ever paint job in the house. 

“Dean!” He calls, turning to the empty room. But Dean’s already there, looking stunned.

“What happened?”

Castiel deep-breathes through his desire to scream in frustration. “Talk to me, Dean,” he says, voice a grumbled wreck. “I put a lot of work into this house.  _ We _ put a lot of work into this house. There must be something wrong, something that’s causing you to . . . to ruin it.” 

“Cas, I—”

“Is it this?” Castiel holds up Micheal’s note. “Are you mad about this?”

“You bet I’m mad about that. That dude has no right to just demand you come running ‘home.’”

“So you destroy the living room as, what, some kind of paranormal temper tantrum?”

“But I didn’t—”

“—do this. Yes. I know.”

Castiel drops onto the couch and massages his temples. He’s caught between the rock of his past and the hard place of his present, between duty and love. Between the truths that Dean did this and Dean would never do this, that ghosts don’t exist, and yet his house is haunted.

Dean crouches down in front of him, green eyes wide and serious. “Ok, look. Yes, I’ve done some mean shit over the years. Bad enough to shove out annoying families and scare away teenagers with spray paint, but I never straight up demolished anything. I lived with Sammy for years and nothing like this ever happened. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t hurt the house. Or you. I wouldn’t.” 

Castiel searches Dean’s face and finds no deception. Pain, yes, in the corners of his eyes. Concern across his forehead. Earnestness in the press of his lips. Frustration in the clench of his jaw. He wishes he could cradle that jaw in his hand, run a thumb along that sharp cheekbone. He wishes this weren’t happening. 

He wishes he didn’t have to say goodbye. 

But this—whatever’s happening with the house, with Dean—is too much. It all happened so fast, and it’s been so intense. Castiel looks over at the broken bookcases and wrestles away despair. 

A break is a good idea. He’ll go and Dean will recenter and they’ll be okay. It’s the right thing to do, especially if he’s really needed back East. 

“I have to go, Dean.”

Dean startles. “What.”

“I won’t stay—I’ll come back—but I have to see what he wants, to help if I can.” Dean’s on his feet, but Castiel doesn’t give him the space to speak yet. “This is my home now. I don’t want to move back to New York, or work for Angelus for the rest of my life. But if I can make a difference to them now and I don’t go? I’d never forgive myself. That’s why I spoke up to save them in the first place.”

Dean shakes his head. “They’re using you, Cas.” 

Castiel lifts and drops his arms, helpless. “They’re family, Dean.”

*

The sleep-destroying bleat of his alarm jolts Castiel into the conditioned response of slapping the off button. He gives himself two minutes more in bed, face down in his pillow, to let his heart rate return to normal and clear away the sleep cobwebs. Okay, maybe another three more minutes. By 7:05 he’s out of bed and moving through some stretches on his way to the closet.

Thirty minutes later, give or take, he’s downstairs and mostly assembled. He sweeps his suit jacket over the back of his breakfast chair and tie over his shoulders before setting about grinding coffee beans. 

Every day is more autumnal. The sunrise over the fields out the kitchen window reveals leaves tinged with yellow and seasonal bushes beginning to burn red. 

Coffee, eggs, toast. He makes his own breakfast every morning now and attempts the previous day’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper as he eats. Sometimes Dean joins him, sometimes not. Today it’s not, probably because he’s still upset about Castiel’s decision. Castiel doesn’t begrudge Dean needing the space, though he does hope he comes to understand. 

It would be impossible for Michael, for all of Angelus, to tempt him away permanently. Breakfast is a perfect example why. He never allowed himself the time for an indulgence such as freshly scrambled eggs and a slice of crusty pumpernickel coated in that really good Irish butter Meg had tipped him to. At most he’d stopped into a Starbucks for a black coffee and occasional croissant on the way to the office. 

He’s living his life here in Lawrence, not ignoring it. 

Dishes go in the sink until after he’s done packing his lunch—today’s sandwich: pastrami and mustard on pumpernickel—and then he washes them all at once. The remaining pot of coffee gets poured into a to-go thermos.

At around 8:30 he employs the toothbrush he keeps in the downstairs bathroom and does a quick rinse with mouthwash. He works on his tie, gives his hair a zhuzh, and calls it good, collecting his jacket, lunch, and thermos on his way out of the kitchen. 

He pauses at the steps to put his shoes on and pack his messenger bag, then swings his trench coat over his shoulders and loads his pockets with his keys, wallet, phone. He frowns at the bookcase mess but pushes that worry away—he’ll clean up after work. 

One last assessment to ensure he hasn’t forgotten anything and he reaches for the door handle. 

“See you later,” Castiel calls back to the empty house, hoping Dean hears, and opens the door. 

But the door doesn’t open. 

His brow furrows. He checks the bolt and sees that it’s in the locked position, even though he doesn’t usually turn it at night. He turns the bolt knob and tries the handle again. 

The door doesn’t open. 

The only other lock on the door is a chain and that dangles loose at his eye line, and that wouldn’t be the issue anyway.

Castiel tries again, and again. He examines the latch mechanism as best he can between the door and the jamb. He’s on the wrong side to make the credit card trick work. He tugs hard, tugs harder. 

There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach that he already knows what the real culprit is, but he’s not ready to acknowledge that yet. 

Castiel makes his way back through the house, down the hall and through the kitchen to the backdoor. Same story. Not locked, won’t open. This one rattles but still doesn’t open. 

It’s 8:45 and he’s officially going to be late for work if he doesn’t leave immediately. 

At the front door once more, he sucks in a deep breath and lets it out like a slow prayer, silent  _ please please please _ on his lips.

“Dean?” 

No response. 

“Dean, I need to get going. We’ll talk more tonight, okay? Please unlock the door.”

He waits. 

“Dean?” 

That time his voice seems to echo and the back of Castiel’s neck prickles. He holds his breath and waits, though he’s not sure what for.  There’s no sound. Nothing moves. He carefully wraps his fingers around the door handle again, as though he could somehow sneakily escape. It doesn’t budge. 

When Castiel exhales, his breath is as visible as it would be on a winter morning and he jerks back. 

Dean’s laugh wafts around him, more chilling than the air.

*

After he tries the windows, which was as useless as it was embarrassing, he calls into the office. 

When Hester picks up, he does his best to pretend he’s not sitting in a defeated slouch on the floor against his front door, still in his trench coat and suit. At least he can’t see his breath anymore. “I won’t be able to make it in today,” he reports, citing “personal reasons.” 

_ My poltergeist boyfriend is possibly possessed and has trapped me in my home, _ just doesn’t have the ring of sanity.

Castiel considers what to do next. Part of him is fearful, but mostly he’s angry. This is an immature, absurd, spiteful trick Dean’s playing and Castiel has no way to combat it. He supposes he could call 911 to make a semi-false report about being held captive and hope that Dean relents when the authorities show up to bust in the door. Though that raises the question of what might happen if Dean doesn’t relent, because he’s stubborn enough not to even when he’s in his right mind. And whatever’s happening to him, Dean is clearly not in his right mind. 

Another avenue would be to call Meg. Despite her quips about the waning need for reference librarians, she does have work duties, especially in the mornings when senior citizens keep her busy with computer questions. He decides Meg is his backup plan. At least she’d understand the ghost part. 

He decides to begin with the problem itself. With a breath to embolden himself, he gets to his feet and takes steps toward the living room.

“Dean!” he shouts, spinning slowly to keep a lookout for a popup appearance. “Come on, Dean. What’s the point of trapping me here if you don’t talk to me?” He waits, and then, “I know you’re here. You can’t be anywhere else.”

There’s a flicker of a figure in the darkest corner of the room, and then Dean is present. He’s an unsettling sight, though. It’s not just that he’s translucent—there’s something about his shoulders, about the way his arms hang at sides, almost limp. 

It’s not until Castiel moves closer that he notices Dean’s expression is empty. The features are Dean’s but also absent Dean. Blank. 

“You can’t keep me here,” Castiel tells him, fists clenched to keep his courage screwed tight. “Talk to me, Dean. You can’t just force or frighten me into submission, I’m not a scared teenager. I’m your friend, your partner.”

The ghost that is Dean Winchester cocks its head, like Castiel is speaking a language it doesn’t understand. 

For all his talk of not being scared, Castiel shudders. “Dean?” 

The ghost’s eyes flip to black, like they’ve been swallowed by ink. “You’re full of shit,” Dean’s voice says.

“Excuse me?” That’s not scary, just confusing. 

“You don’t get both, Cas. ‘I’m your friend, your partner,’” he parodies. His face twists into a sneer. “You don’t get to claim all that and then leave me.”

Dean—because it is Dean, a version of him, riddled with hostility and anger—steps out of the shadows, right up into Castiel’s personal space. “You think you’re so righteous, going back to help your poor, floundering billionaire brother. And help him do what, by the way? Find his own ass? You’re not righteous. You’re abandoning the only person that’s ever loved you.”

Castiel swallows, absorbing that sting. 

“Maybe you’re useless after all. Have you considered that, oh mighty Castiel? They fired you for a reason. What if you can’t help? You couldn’t have done half of the work around this place without all your stupid manuals and my help. What good are you?” 

“Then why keep me?” Castiel’s voice is reduced to a whisper, even as the ripping of his heart has him an inch away from a scream.

“Good point. Maybe I should let you go and fail and then, when you come home, maybe I don’t let you back in.” Black-eyed Dean grins. “Now there’s an idea.”

“This isn’t you, Dean. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ll disappear and show up three hours from now not remembering any of this. There’s something wrong with you. I think you’re slipping away.” It’s the best Castiel can hope for and the worst he can imagine. Or, allows himself to imagine.

Dean laughs that mean laugh, the one that sends ice down Castiel’s spine. “Something wrong with me? I’m not the hermit with only one friend.”

“Yes you are.” Dean’s glare is sharp as a knife, but Castiel doesn’t back down. “You’re exactly that, stuck in this house with only the TV and me for company. I’m all you have, Dean Winchester.”

“Exactly. So stay.” 

The abruptness of that conclusion stops Castiel short. It sounds so simple. Just stay. Just say yes, even if it’s a lie. 

But Dean’s face is back to blank, his eyes are still ink, and he’s not only asking about now, he’s asking about forever. And Castiel doesn’t lie.

“I can’t make that promise, Dean. I won’t. I might be leaving soon but not for good. I’m not leaving  _ you _ .” The distinction is obviously lost on those black eyes, but somewhere in there maybe his Dean can hear him. “You can’t keep me here. If I’m here, it’s because I choose to be, because I choose to stay with you.”

A memory floats up then, a moment of Dean’s insecurity from months ago, when Castiel first began his job hunt.  _ There are all kinds of ways to be rid of me _ , Dean had quipped, and then he listed off a number of tactics Castiel didn’t fully listen to because getting rid of Dean was the furthest thing from his mind at the time. But he does remember something about a fireplace poker. Not the poker specifically, what it was made of. Iron. 

“Fine,” Dean growls and the temperature in the room drops again. The room is dimming, too, ambient light draining away as the shadows where Dean stands deepen. 

Castiel’s eyes drift to the nearest of the vent grates he’d had to remove when sanding the hardwood. They didn’t need to be nailed down because of their weight. He takes some slow steps backward, toward the grate and away from Dean, who’s beginning to glow. 

Whatever he’s gathering power for won’t be good. 

“I love you, Dean,” Castiel tries. 

If Dean hears him, he also ignores him. A wind swirls up in the room, billowing the ends of Castiel’s coat and knocking over table lamps. 

Castiel throws his arms over his head as the first piece of bookshelf debris is caught up in the whirlwind. He doesn’t think it was purposefully aimed, but he retreats a few more inches, floor grate almost in reach.

“You can go when you can get out,” this dark version of Dean calls over the din, and with a flick of his hand bookshelf boards slap themselves over windows. Another push of his palm and the couch skids all the way to the door. 

Dean moves forward and the darkness follows. 

Castiel swoops down to latch his fingers through the grate cover holes and uses momentum to swing the heavy thing up, aiming for Dean. He braces for impact, but of course there isn’t one. Instead, Dean dissipates like smoke, mouth still open in shock. 

Castiel drops the grate and runs for the door, hoping Dean’s absence means a temporary release of control. He shoves one end of the couch out of the way and yanks the handle but it’s absolutely no use. “Think, think, think,” he pounds a fist against the door in rhythm with his command. 

The backup plan. 

He fumbles into his trench coat pocket and pulls out his cellphone. He fusses with the contacts fast, hands shaking. Meg picks up on the first ring. 

“Lawrence Public Library, Reference.” 

He must’ve pressed her work number in his haste, but he doesn’t have time to feel bad about that. “Meg.”

“Clarence?” She’s lowered her voice but can’t hide her surprise. 

“The ghost is back. I’m trapped in the house. I—”

“You’re what now?”

“It’s a long story. There isn’t time. Meg, the doors and windows won’t open and I think he might be dangerous.”

“Might be? Clarence, I’m coming over.” 

Castiel closes his eyes and finds tears in that brief darkness. “Okay, yes, but before you go, I need to know what I can do for protection. I thought you might know something. Iron works, it seems, but I think that’s temporary.”

“Salt,” Meg says immediately. 

“Salt?” Castiel’s already on his way to the kitchen. 

“Yeah. It’s a purifier. Do you have one of those big containers of table salt?”

He locates it as soon as she asks. “Yes.”

“Pour out a circle big enough to stand in. Make sure there’s no gaps. You’ll be safe in there no matter what he throws at you.” 

The catch in Castiel’s throat at Meg’s words is audible, and his attempt to cover with a cough doesn’t fool her.

“Angel, are you hurt? Did he hit you with something?” Her voice is tender in a way he hasn’t heard before. 

“Yes and no.” 

“I’m on my way,” Meg replies and hangs up. 

He doesn’t know what good her presence will be, but the act of solidarity is touching. At least the only friend he has is a good one.

*

Castiel stands in the space between the entryway and living room, salt canister in hand. There’s a view of the driveway from here so he can watch for Meg and plenty of space to make the salt circle. But he’s waiting. 

Dean’s been gone for about seven minutes and since hanging up with Meg, Castiel’s heart has swollen with love and grief as often as his stomach has sunk with despair. It’s a physiological rollercoaster he desperately wants to get off. His fingers twitch on the container spout as he waits and he wonders which Dean will return, the one with black eyes or the one with green.

It turns out Castiel doesn’t have to wait longer, and the way Dean arrives ends up being the tip off. He’s preceded by an angry flicker again, like TV static in the air. 

Black eyes, then.

“You think you’re so smart,” Dean sneers, moving through the air without the apparent effort of walking.

Castiel pulls the salt spout fully open and kneels down to start the circle. It’s more difficult than he thought to get a smooth arc. And hopefully the line doesn’t have to be thick. 

He must be doing something right, though, because it’s enough to freeze Dean in his invisible tracks. 

“Cas! Cas, what’re you doing? What did I do? Did I hurt you? Cas!” 

Castiel tenses and keeps pouring, turning his back on Dean to avoid the temptation. His circle is closed before he runs out of salt and he thanks the higher power he doesn’t believe in before leaning over to reinforce a weak spot. Only then does he stand and face Dean.

“Cas, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to protect yourself from me. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened, but I—” he takes in the couch cockeyed in front of the door, the boards over the windows. “I’m sorry.” 

“Let me go,” is all Castiel says. 

He doesn’t move an inch, afraid any part of him might extend beyond the salt. But every muscle in his body clamors to reach out, to go to Dean and do impossible things like take his hand and press their foreheads together and whisper impossible words like, “It’s okay, I’m here. I’ll stay.” 

“Let you? Oh. Shit.” Dean nods and the boards fall from the windows with a clatter. 

Castiel squints to see whether the door bolt is still in place but can’t tell for certain. There’s no sign of Meg outside yet, and although he could leave without her, something is telling him to hold off until she’s here. Maybe it’s just that he wants someone else to see Dean, to prove this has all been real. 

“I’m going to go,” Castiel tells Dean, calm as he can though his insides are screaming. “I’ll be back. But I can’t trust you right now, do you understand? I’m scared, Dean. Of you. I need to go for now.” 

“No. No.” Dean hangs his head and shakes it. At first Castiel thinks it’s a penitent no, as in  _ no, don’t be afraid of me _ , as Dean had begged just days ago. But that’s not how it sounds as he repeats it. “No. No, Cas.”

When Dean looks up again, the black eyes are back. 

Castiel braces himself as the wind from nowhere kicks up again. He glances nervously at the salt circle but even as the pictures on the walls begin to tremble, not one grain so much as rolls. 

A movement at the bay window catches his eye and there’s Meg, waving him toward her. To make it that far, he’d have to cross paths with Dean, though. It’s a shorter dash to the door and Castiel takes his chance. 

He bolts toward the couch, rounding the arm and ducks as a book flies overhead. 

“Don’t you dare!” dark-eyed Dean shouts. 

The door handle is locked—still, or again. 

As Castiel curses his luck, he sees the strap of his shoulder bag straggling out from under the couch. He frees the bag and pulls the strap over his head, readying himself for a sprint to the window. 

Just then a crash cuts through the chaos Dean has stirred up, and Castiel ducks again until he hears Meg over the tinkle of falling glass. “Clarence! This way!” 

The bay window is shattered and Meg beckons him through. 

“Don’t you dare leave.” Dean’s guttural shout rings out again, and this time it’s accompanied by a scraping sound. 

Castiel makes it halfway to the window when he sees it. The words are carving themselves into the walls. DON’T and YOU and DARE in angular, almost childish letters. And all the while detritus of the life Castiel built by hand swirls in pieces around the ghost of a man he’d come to love.

Castiel thinks he might throw up. He squeezes his eyes shut and counts to three, one breath at a time.

“Clarence! Keep going. Come on.”

“CAS! Look at me, Cas. Don’t you dare leave me.” 

Four strides is all it takes to make the rest of the way, up the window seat, and out the other side. Meg steadies him as he jumps to the ground and they run for the car. 

“He knows you,” Meg says as soon as she slams her car door. “You know him.”

Castiel watches the stuff of his life spin in the air through the front window. “I do. I did. I thought I did.”

Her face is pale with fear despite their sprint, but her doe eyes are wide with questions. He asks her one first. “Can we go, please?”

*

_ Dean spends his first week dead trying out every haunting-type behavior he’s ever heard of. There’s a lot of silly whispering near Sam’s ear, trying to write in mirrors, and frustrated swiping of his hands through walls and coffee mugs and chairs before anything happens.  _

_ The morning something finally clicks, he’s in Sam’s bedroom—not really watching him sleep but also not not watching him sleep—and thinking  _ close close close _ at the door, until he realizes he can’t send a plank of wood a thought.  _

_ So he changes his approach. Instead he thinks about the hinges holding that plank of wood to the door jamb, and the way those hinges swing, the way pushing at the opposite side forces them to turn. And with a loud WHAP the door slams and Sam startles upright. _

_ Dean whoops and claps but Sam just rubs his eyes and flops back to his pillow. It’s anticlimactic, really, but it’s something. _

_ From then on, Dean dissects the movement and mechanics of everything. Rather than just pleading with stuff to move, he thinks about the system or force needed to move it. It’s sorta like diagnosing what’s wrong with an engine, only backward.  _

_ Things actually designed to move are easiest—doors and faucets and light switches. For a good two days everywhere Sam goes in the house Dean follows him, closing doors Sam opened and turning off lights Sam turned on. If Dean weren’t currently dead, this would be the best prank war of all time. He definitely starts playing it like a game where winning equals getting Sam to notice something’s weird. Dean laughs and cheers himself and Sam on every time Sam pauses or startles or seems to second-guess his memory. _

_ The door to Dean’s bedroom has been resolutely closed for over a week. He’s been thinking a lot about doorknobs and latches lately, though, and one morning just as Sam’s getting ready to go downstairs, Dean gives it a shot. He’s in the hall, waiting, and as soon as Sam passes, Dean winds the knob and pushes. The door creaks open, revealing Dean’s bed, still tidily made with his military-issued green wool blanket.  _

_ Sam stops and squints and, for the first time, whispers, “Dean? Is that you?”  _

_ Dean busts out a laugh and a “Hell yes! ’Atta boy, Sammy!” He flings his arms around his brother for a hug, only to end up stumbling through him and into his room. He turns around in time to see Sam shiver. _

_ Right. Gotta work on that part still. _

_ Sam rolls his eyes and mutters, “Don’t be stupid,” to himself as he pulls the door closed.  _

_ “Sam, no, wait!” Dean rushes forward, too late. “Goddamn it!” Dean shouts and kicks the door. A loud, satisfying thunk results, and Dean’s foot doesn’t hurt but feels kinda like it should. He stares at the door, wishing he could’ve seen Sam’s reaction, and gives an impressed grunt. “Well, that’s progress.” _

_ Stationary stuff is way harder to mess with. A beer on a counter isn’t meant to move. A chair needs a hand to push it. But Dean thinks about the physics of the motions. He stops picturing the desired outcome of the can sliding or the chair skidding and starts picturing the currents of energy that would encircle a beer can and the buildup of leverage against a chair back. _

_ And it works. A nudge here, a wobble there and Sam comes into the kitchen to find empties on the floor or a chair tipped over.  _

_ About a month into death, Dean’s sitting opposite Sam at the kitchen table, chin resting on his stacked fists. He’s bouncing his gaze between Sam and Sam’s glass of water like he’s watching tennis, only somehow this is still more interesting. Mostly he’s simultaneously holding the thought of energy to move the glass and waiting for Sam to reach for it.  _

_ And then Sam does. And Dean lets go of the force-thought. And the glass flings itself off the table, a suicide skate that ends in a clank and a splash.  _

_ “Yeah!” Dean shouts. He’s on his feet immediately, hands in the air.  _

_ Sam, though, Sam freezes. He cocks his head and closes his eyes, face pinching and twitching. It takes Dean a second to realize Sam’s listening. He scoots back into his chair and leans forward, eager.  _

_ “Hey, hey, Sammy! Sammy, did you hear that? Can you hear me?”  _

_ Sam squeezes his eyes and dips his head, almost like he doesn’t want to believe what he’s hearing. “Dean? Is that— Are you here?” _

_ God bless the boy.  _

_ “Yes! Oh thank Christ, yes, Sam. Yes. I’m here. I’m right here, at the table. Open your eyes. Please see me, please.” _

_ “Oh my God.” Sam shoves away from the table and stumbles to his feet. “Oh my God, Dean. How— How?”  _

_ “Sam! I don’t know. I don’t know but I’m here, okay? We got this. I’m still here and it’s gonna be okay.” _

_ “No . . . what? You’re dead, Dean. You’re not supposed to be here.” Sam’s got tears in his eyes and he’s practically trembling. Fuck, Dean wishes he could explain, but he’s not sure he’s got the time.  _

_ Maybe it’ll take Dean a couple more weeks to master whatever the trick is to being seen and reason through how to make himself heard, and maybe it’ll be months until it all happens easily as breathing used to, but in this moment he feels it, sort of. A staticky prickle of existence. More importantly, Sam sees it.  _

_ “It’s fine, I’m fine. Don’t worry.” Dean can’t describe how exactly, but he feels himself flicker and fade. It’s confirmed by Sam’s reaction.  _

_ “Dean, what’s happening? Are you going? Is this goodbye or—” _

_ “I’m not going anywhere, Sam. I promise. We’ll figure this out, okay? We’ll figure this out.” _

_ Sam nods but his brows are bunches and his eyes are wild. And the way his gaze isn’t exactly on Dean anymore tells Dean that he’s invisible again. “Okay, yeah. Figure it out, I guess, yeah.” _

_ Yes they fucking will, Dean thinks. He’s gonna haunt the shit out of this place. _

*

Meg’s apartment is the kind of bohemian coffee shops strive for. There’s no apparent attempt at matching colors or patterns or styles and yet everything from the macrame plant hangers and Mexican tile fireplace to the Victorian-era taxidermied raven and Japanese silk throw on the midcentury velour couch seems meant to share space.

A cup of tea enters Castiel’s vision and he looks up to take it from her with soft thank you.

She takes the overstuffed purple chair across from him and pulls up her ankles to sit cross legged. “You ready to talk about it yet?”

Castiel presses his palms around the heat of the mug and wonders if the chill of Dean’s haunting will ever leave his bones. “Not really, no.” 

“Alright, just tell me this: was that Dean? Your Marine?”

That earns her some eye contact. “How did you know?”

Meg sips her tea and shrugs. “Hot guy. Met at the house. I’m not allowed to meet him.” 

“But he’s—”

She smiles at him but it’s not unkind. “Yeah, so much for ghosts not existing, huh?”

Castiel looks down at his mug again. “You don’t think it’s . . . unorthodox?”

This time Meg laughs. “Of course it is, Clarence, but that doesn’t make it untrue.”

For the first time since this morning, Castiel relaxes. His shoulders mellow, gut unclenches. He sags back into the couch, suddenly so tired, and realizes he has no idea what time it is. 

“I wanted to tell you, but it was all so strange. I wasn’t always certain it was real. But he was—” Castiel bursts into laughter that’s also full of tears, awash in memories from just months ago. Dean lecturing him on how to properly install light fixtures. Dean reminiscing about MTV and cheeseburgers. Dean playing keep-away with Castiel’s shirt by floating it just out of reach. Dean greeting him in bed in the morning. “He was irritating and cocky and hilarious. And sweet. And he loved me.” 

“Oh, Clarence.” Meg sets down her mug and joins him on the couch, gathering him—trench coat and all—into a hug. Castiel doesn’t know what else to do but cry, so he lets himself, finally. 

When the ache in his chest is tolerable again, Castiel pulls away. Meg shifts back to give him space and picks up her tea again, as if nothing excessively emotional had just taken place.

“So, what happened? How did we get to today?”

“I’m not sure. He started behaving differently, moving things and scaring me. Haunting, essentially, but in a way he never used to, and then he’d show up later and have no memory of it. Today though—today was hardly Dean.”

“What’s ‘don’t you dare’ mean?” 

Castiel sighs and lolls his head against the back of the couch. “Michael offered me a position at Angelus. He wants me back in New York. Dean was, uh, insistent I stay.” He rocks his head back and forth, in a lazy shake. “But that’s what I don’t understand. Why haunt and threaten me? He was forcing me out even while demanding that I don’t leave.”

“He’s hurt, but he loves you.” Meg shrugs as if it makes perfect sense. 

Maybe it does.

“Final question,” Meg says. “What’s next? You got a plan?”

There’s a thought that’s been buzzing at the back of Castiel’s brain for days now. It’s something he never hoped he’d never have to say out loud, for fear of breaking his own heart. But after today, his heart is already in pieces. 

“Not a plan, no. But. Dean once told me he said no a reaper.” Meg’s eyebrows shoot up but she lets him finish. “I think he’s what you would call a restless spirit. And I think—I think I need to put him to rest.” 


	10. Chapter 10

Castiel doesn’t go home. He longs to, but the risk of not being allowed to leave is too great. Instead, he purchases some essentials in the way of clothing and toiletries and takes up residence on Meg’s couch. He offers to get a hotel room, but she rolls her eyes and shoves a set of sheets into his chest and that had been the end of that discussion, as such.

He also doesn’t go to work. It’s poor form to take a week off this early in his tenure, but when he explains that his house is in need of fumigation, Anna is more than willing to give him space and time. It’s dishonest, of course, and Castiel doesn’t like the lie. He also doesn’t like that, if you carry through the metaphor, Dean is characterized as a pest. But the threat of bed bugs or termites or roaches—Castiel doesn’t specify—is enough to make his officemates relieved by his absence rather than suspicious. 

Castiel misses Dean. He wonders if Dean thinks he’s returned to New York. Or, worse, that Castiel has confirmed Dean’s biggest fear and abandoned him. The knots in his stomach over that thought prevent him from accepting most of the food Meg offers, but that hasn’t stopped her from trying. 

“Eat,” she says, plopping a ziplocked peanut butter and jelly sandwich and bag of potato chips on the book spread open in front of him. He’s slouched at one of the large reading tables adjacent to the reference section, as he has been for the past two days. The other tables around him are currently empty, though depending on time of day he sometimes shares the space with elderly men dozing off over open newspapers or children with coloring sheets and crayons.

Castiel straightens as Meg takes a seat next to him. “I thought food wasn’t permitted in the library.” She’d obviously packed the sandwich for him that morning before she left for work, and Castiel is touched. 

“I’m the librarian and I’m making an exception.” She sets a water bottle on the table too.

He picks up the PBJ and tries to unstick the ziplock quietly. Meg swings the book he was reading her way and waits until he’s swallowed his first bite before checking in. 

“Find anything?”

Castiel wags his head, peanut butter still preventing speech, and reaches for the water bottle. 

They’ve divided up the research. Meg is redoubling her local history search efforts on the Campbells and Winchesters while Castiel dives into ghost lore. She’d selected the texts most likely to be useful but otherwise leaves him to it while she goes about her work. 

A day and a half day of dry air and fluorescent, ’70s bricked sunlessness has made Castiel more appreciative of his modern, windowed workplace. And the lore . . . It’s mostly nonsense. Or, that’s his initial reaction each time he comes across chapters on orbs or ectoplasm. But enough of the accounts echo his lived experiences that he reminds himself that he can’t dismiss it all out of hand. Unexplained noises. Displaced objects. Sourceless whispers or laughter. Cold spots.

The photos of reddish-pink marks left on the skin sleeping children he’d found yesterday had stirred up a panicky ache. His hand had drifted to cup his shoulder where Dean’s love bite had long since faded as he contemplated the terrifying difference between malevolent abrasions on children and how Dean had marked Castiel. Presumably, if Dean is capable of one, he’s capable of the other. 

Today Castiel’s tried to focus his research on how to disperse a ghost. It’s not promising.

“Nothing that seems to apply. I want to help Dean move on, not”—he leans forward to consult a nineteenth-century tome he’d pushed away an hour ago—“‘eradicate the wayward spirit by dispatching its unclaimed soul to Hell.’” 

Meg makes a face. “Yeah, nobody wants that.” She grabs the chip bag and unapologetically pops it open, crunching down a couple. Castiel reaches for one and pokes into the gooey center of his sandwich—another flavor palate trick Dean he had taught him. 

“Anything in the archives?” While Castiel has been consulting indexes and skimming chapters, Meg’s been consulting the library’s databases. 

“I only had time to start a few searches this morning but haven’t checked the results yet. It should be quiet now until school gets out, so I’ll get back to it. Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to find you passed out from low blood sugar over here.”

“I appreciate that.” Castiel bobs the remaining half of his sandwich in cheers as Meg gets up to return to work. She leaves him the rest of the chips.

* 

Two hours later, Castiel has given up on books and begun entering search terms in Google on his laptop. He’s immersed in an article about how to supernaturally clean house when Meg drops down next to him again. 

“Did you know ghosts thrive on attention? According to,” he scrolls up to check the author’s name again, “Weigel, ‘when you give a ghost attention, you give it power.’ That explains a lot about Dean. He certainly never lacked attention, not from me and probably not from anyone else.”

Castiel looks over at Meg and finds she’s almost squirming with excitement. 

“That’s nice,” she says. “This is better.” She pushes a printout at him.

It’s an obituary for one Patrick Leahy from 2007. Castiel scrunches his eyebrows, trying to understand how this is relevant and Meg points him to sentence toward the end. He reads it aloud to himself. “Survived by his daughter Eileen [Sam] Winchester of Lebanon, Kansas.” 

And then it sinks in. 

“Sam Winchester? Our Sam Winchester?”

“Pretty sure. Once I found him in the obit, I did a White Pages search and found this.” She hands him a second paper. 

Sam Winchester. Age 50s. Lebanon, KS. Other locations: Lawrence, KS; Palo Alto, CA. Family: Eileen Winchester, Colleen Winchester, Deanna Smith. 

“He’s alive,” Castiel breathes. “Of course he’s alive. But, he’s here. In Kansas.”

Castiel’s eyes lock with Meg’s and hope fills the ache in his chest. He doesn’t know what Sam Winchester would be able to do. He’s positive it’s a terrible idea to show up on someone’s doorstep to ask about their dead brother. But to be able to talk to someone who knew Dean, knew what it is to live with his ghost . . . 

“Lebanon’s about four hours away,” says Meg.

Castiel closes his laptop.

* 

Sam’s house isn’t remarkable. It’s an absolutely ordinary 1970s split-level, part light-blue siding, part brick in a subdivision on the north side of Lebanon. Castiel isn’t sure what he imagined, but the mundanity of Sam’s current home as compared to the farm house full of secrets he grew up in—and the problem Castiel is about to lay at his doorstep—is difficult to wrap his head around.

Meg unbuckles her seatbelt and waits for Castiel as he peers through the windshield. “Ready?” 

Castiel shoots her a look. “No.” 

“Okay, but it’s weirder if we just keep sitting in the driveway.”

Castiel concedes and steps out of the car. It’s cooler here than in Lawrence, and he’s glad for his trench coat. In this moment, it feels like armor, a buffer between himself and whatever he’s about to discover. 

They’d called ahead, at least. Or, Meg had, since she’s more convincing when it comes to twisting the truth. She’d spoken with Sam and said she’s been researching the old Campbell place—not, strictly speaking, untrue—and would like to interview him about his memories of the place. When Sam made an excuse about not having time at the moment, Meg took it as an opportunity to make sure he wouldn’t be able to just hang up on a second phone call and invited herself and “a colleague” over. “We’d love to get a photo to include in the piece,” she’d cooed. 

So here he is, standing on Sam Winchester’s front stoop, an ostensible photographer colleague with a bad case of nerves, whose only camera is the iPhone in his pocket. 

Meg pushes the doorbell and they hear footsteps inside. The door swings open on a man who is unmistakably Sam. "Hey, welcome," he greets, and there’s the barest hint of a twang in his voice. His hairline has receded and his hair is a little shorter and grayer than in the photos Castiel found in the attic, but the planes and angles of his nose and cheekbones have barely changed. 

If he’d never seen photos of them side by side in their youth, Castiel wouldn’t have guessed this man to be Dean’s brother. But there are hints of Dean, even now, around his eyes and in the set of his jaw.

Sam and Meg exchange introductions but all Castiel can manage is a curt nod. Sam’s eyebrows scrunch together briefly at Castiel’s silence, but his politeness doesn’t falter. “Come in. Let’s get you guys settled.” 

Inside, the entirely ordinary split-level is anything but. Whatever walls used to partition the kitchen, dining room, and living area from each other have been removed to create a great room. The space is brightened by a skylight.

Sam gestures to the couch and chairs but continues over to the kitchen himself. “Can I get you something to drink? Eileen has some water on for tea, I think.” He joins a petite woman with salt and pepper hair in a low ponytail who’s standing at the kitchen island. She’s dwarfed by Sam’s height, and looks up at him as he speaks and signs introductions of Meg and Castiel. “They’re here about the old house,” he adds. 

Eileen gives a knowing “ah” then turns to her guests. “Hi guys. Want tea?”

Once they’re seated and served, Eileen takes her leave with a kiss to the top of Sam’s head before disappearing down the stairs. His lips purse with a light blush before he looks up at Castiel and Meg again. “So. What paper did you say you were from?”

“We didn’t. We’re not actually writing about the house.” Meg takes an unconcerned sip of tea.

Sam’s brow crunches again. “Oh. So, are you the new owners then?”

“Yes,” Castiel says at the same moment Meg says “No.” They shoot each other a look. Meg relents with a raise of her palm and settles back into the sofa with her cup and saucer. 

“I purchased the house earlier this year, yes. I’d intended to fix it up and resell the property but that seems unlikely now.” He pauses and Sam indicates he understands the market downturn with a nod. “After putting so much time and effort into the house, well. It’s become home.”

“That’s great.” Sam smiles and the age creases in his cheeks turn into dimples. “I’m really glad the old place has gotten some attention. I haven’t been back in decades, but I know it’d been empty for a while.”

“Ah, yes. That’s what we—I—wanted to speak to you about.” Castiel leans forward, elbows on knees and tea cup held gingerly in his fingertips. “When did you last live there?”

“Oh gosh. Thirty some years ago? I started law school in ’74, so it must’ve been then.”

Castiel nods. Two years, then. Sam had lived with the ghost of his brother for two years. “And do you know about any of the families after you?” 

“No, nothing specific. I had a realtor handle the sale because I moved to California for school. Friends from Lawrence used to let me know when the house was on the market. Seemed like nobody really took to the place, which was a shame. People don’t always appreciate older houses these days, though.”

Castiel nods again. He’s at a loss for how to get closer to what he wants to know without resorting to Meg’s bluntness and he can sense her impatience. 

Sam beats them both to it, though. “No offense, but I’ve been a prosecutor for almost two decades. I know when someone’s not giving me the whole story. What’s up? What brings you guys all the way to Lebanon?”

Meg prompts Castiel with a kick of her booted toe.

“There’s been some . . . activity in the house, and I wondered what you might know about that.”

Stillness settles over Sam. The ankle balanced on his opposite knee stops jouncing. His long fingers press flat, one hand on his thigh, the other on an armrest. 

“He’s still there.” Sam says to a middle-distance, to himself. But his gaze flicks up to Castiel’s as he repeats it. “He’s still there.”

He. Dean. Castiel is almost positive his chest has split open, leaving his heart to beat unprotected and wild. 

“Yes.”

Sam’s in motion again as tears fill his eyes, and he bends forward with a startled laugh that edges on hysterical. His lips twist in and out of a smile as he laughs again and sniffles and nods hard. “Dean, you sonofabitch!” he crows and swipes at his damp cheeks.

Meg looks at Castiel with excited eyes, but Castiel feels more likely to start tearing up along with Sam. 

“How did you— I mean, how do you know—”

Castiel takes a deep breath, readying to recap events he hadn’t even fully shared with Meg. “I met him fairly early on. There’s still some furniture that belonged to your mother and grandmother in the house and he was upset I moved them, so he moved them back.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Of course he did.” 

“Eventually he began appearing daily. He helped me with some of the repairs, told me stories about his life and about haunting families who’d lived there. He takes great pride in the house and keeping it safe, from people and from other spirits.” This time when Sam smiles, Castiel shares in it. 

“So he let you stay? All those families had to go, but not you.” Sam was obviously a shrewd prosecutor.

“No.” Castiel looks down at his hands and stifles the memory of Dean’s cool fingers linked with his own. “No. He said he liked that I was fixing up the place.” 

Sam gives that a considering “huh,” and slides his gaze to Meg. “What about you? Did you get to know him too?”

“Heck no,” Meg scoffs. She tips a nod as Castiel. “He’s the one with the tragic romance. I’m just here for moral support.”

One of Sam’s eyebrows spikes and Castiel glares at Meg. She shrugs at him. “Tell the man why you’re here, Clarence.” 

“Something’s happened,” Castiel sighs. “Your brother hasn’t been himself lately. He’s become dangerous to the point where I haven’t been able to stay at the house. I’d like to . . . to help him move on, or put him to rest. And I’m wondering whether you might know how I can do that.” 

Sam looks down and away before he answers. “Did he tell you about the reaper?” 

“He told me that he said no to her. It’s how he remained on as a ghost.”

“So he left out the part about it being a one-time offer, I assume.” Sam winces as though he can see Castiel’s heart sink. “Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me. Dean’s always the hero of his own stories, always in the right, never makes a mistake. And saying no to that reaper was a mistake.” 

It takes Castiel a moment to find his voice. In cosmic terms, yes, it was a mistake for Dean to deny a reaper. In personal terms, Castiel is selfishly glad Dean messed that one up. 

“I see.” He’d considered researching how to summon a reaper to give Dean a second try, but obviously he wouldn’t need to pursue that avenue if what Sam said was true. “Does that mean there’s nothing to be done?”

Sam spreads his hands in a gesture identical to Dean’s. “I don’t know. I didn’t know he stayed. I thought after I left . . . I thought for sure he’d let go, somehow. That I was the reason he was sticking around and without me he’d give up. But damn, he sure is stubborn, isn’t he?” Sam’s eyes well with tears again, and Castiel feels his own prickle in sympathy. They share another watery smile. 

“Hey, forgive me for breaking up the broment here, but that can’t just be it. Cas needs his house back.”

“Right, of course,” Sam concedes. “I don’t know what I can do to help, but I’m willing. I always wanted Dean to find some peace, even before he died. We had a family friend—sort of a second dad to us, really—who always said Dean would fight his own shadow if it could punch back.” Sam shakes himself out of the memory. “Sorry. It’s just been so long.”

“I understand.” Castiel wishes Sam would never stop. He wants to hear every story he has to tell, soak up every detail of Sam’s impressions and interpretations of Dean. But Meg has a point. They have a problem that needs solving. 

“Can I ask what kind of dangerous Dean is?”

Meg slips a hand into Castiel’s and squeezes as he begins his answer. “The last time I saw him, Dean was sucking energy into himself like a black hole. He had me locked in the house, objects were spinning through the room in a whirlwind, and his eyes were black. Entirely black.” 

“Okay. Wow, okay.” Sam sinks into a brainstorming mode. “Please know I’m not blaming the victim here, but is there anything you know of that may have caused him to do those things? Lock you in, for example?” 

Castiel has already connected the dots Sam is about to, so he knows what he says next will hurt. “Dean seems to be afraid I’m going to leave him.” 

Sam’s lips roll in and he presses his mouth in a light line. He nods hard again. “Because of me. Because I left.” 

“I think so,” Castiel agrees quietly. 

“Yeah, alright. I’m coming with you.” 

“What?” Castiel asks at the same time as Meg pipes, “Yes!” He frowns at her as she grins at Sam. 

“Look, Dean had loads of issues before he died, but this one? This one’s on me.” He gets to his feet, lanky joints still spry at 59 years old. “Let me just go tell Eileen. I don’t know what we’re going to do or how I can help, but we’ll figure it out.” 

Sam stops with a chuckle midway through his turn toward the stairs. “You know, Dean used to say that about everything. ‘We’ll figure it out.’ Drove me nuts, like he was ignoring realities. But maybe, maybe he just had hope.” 

“Or was just that stubborn,” Castiel offers. 

Sam’s dimples appear. “That too.” 

*

_Dean’s been practicing swapping out records on the turntable. He’s got Zepp’s_ Houses of the Holy _hovering just above the turntable, but getting the hole lined up with the spindle is a bitch._

_Changing radio stations is literally a snap and flipping TV channels got easier once he realized he could skip trying to turn the dial. That electrical stuff he’d figured out pretty soon after getting diagnosed as dead. Moving physical things still requires more focus, though. It isn’t like he has much else on his social calendar, though, so he spends a lot of time practicing. He’s got down doors and cabinets and chairs. His new favorite is pushing Sam’s plate around during dinner and Sam’s books while he’s studying when he doesn’t actually have to. And sometimes at night he’ll hide Sam’s shoes or keys. Basically he practices by screwing with Sam’s, well, everything._

_Because technically everything is Sam’s now. The house and everything in it—from Dean’s footlocker to Mom’s radio to great-Grandma Campbell’s china hutch. It all belongs to Sam, sole Campbell descendant, last of the Winchester line._

_That’s weird to think about, though, so Dean usually doesn’t. He’s still here, after all, still home. So even if legally it’s all Sam’s, Dean’s still around to use it._

_“C’mon, c’mon, you sonofabitch,” Dean growls at the record as it skirts the spindle again. He’ll be damned if he scratches the album. Took him long enough to pester Sam into buying it for him._

_It’s annoying that moving big objects is easier than little shit like this. You’d think lifting a couch would be hard, but actually it’s this fine-motor stuff that makes him sweat. A book or bottle he can sort of just swat, like punching with a thought. Dean’s always been more of a blunt instrument._

_The record slips down the spindle and Dean cheers, then realizes he still has to set the needle._

_There’s another half hour or so before Sam gets home from his internship and Dean’s determined to hear “Over the Hills and Far Away” at least once before then. When Sam gets back he’ll want to watch the news—he’s been following the Watergate stuff real closely. Dean gets that it’s messed up and historic and all that, but it’s hard to get your panties in a bunch about the government when you’re already dead. Turns out good music’s good for the soul no matter what._

_The needle drops into Page’s twiddling guitar on “The Song Remains the Same” on his first try and Dean practically groans with pleasure. He takes up the drum part with a set of imaginary sticks and jams his way around the living room._

_“Rain Song” doesn’t exactly inspire a jam session, so he takes a seat and flips through one of the magazines piled on the coffee table that Sam keeps around but never has time to read. An issue of_ People _features Mia Farrow looking coy with a string of pearls and claims to have an article about_ The Exorcist _that Dean wishes he could’ve gone to see. He misses movies, misses drive-ins and popcorn and nothing in your field of vision or on your mind for two whole hours except a whole new world of other people’s problems._

_Dean doesn’t bother trying to turn over the record, so he resets the needle without getting up before it scratches to the center. He’s halfway through the second listen of “Over the Hills” when Sam breezes in and launches himself up the stairs, two steps at time._

_“Hello to you too!” Dean calls after him, then grumbles about kids these days into his reading._

_So far the firm downtown hasn’t made Sam cut his hair, but he is required to wear a tie, which tickles Dean to no end. A Winchester on his way to white collar—who’da thought?_

_By the time Sam comes back downstairs, Dean’s given up on Led Zeppelin and turned on the news. He’d been hoping Walter Cronkite’s voice would tempt Sam to come down sooner, but instead ended up sitting through a lot of depressing crap about a train crash in Illinois._

_Sam clears his throat, hovering just at the edge of the room, and Dean unfurrows his brow as he looks up._

_“Dean, I— uh. Dean, I’m gonna go.”_

_“Go where?” Dean asks, eyeing the duffle bag Sam shifts from one hand to the other. The way his brother’s shoulders are clenched almost to his ears means this ain’t no camping trip._

_“Just, I don’t know, go. For a while, I think.”_

_Dean gets up and Sam backs toward the door, not so much giving ground as holding the line of retreat open._

_One of the weirder things about being dead is that emotions don’t register in your body, but if Dean had a stomach it would’ve just dropped. “I get the sense you’re not talking about a road trip here,” he says and Sam winces._

_“Look, I love you, okay? You’re the best brother I ever could have asked for and I owe you so much. I do. I’m grateful, really. But— Dean, I can’t be here. I have to go.”_

_“Yeah, no.”_

_In the way of a hundred arguments they’ve had before, Sam’s anger flares to life like a lit match. “There’s no ‘no’, Dean! You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. This is exactly the problem.”_

_“It’s the first I’m hearing of any problem,” Dean says and crosses his arms. Sure, Sam complains when Dean floats dirty underwear in his face, but that’s the point of doing it._

_“No, it really isn’t. You just happen to ignore me every time I remind you that I’m an adult. And Christ, Dean, you— you—”_

_“Died?” It’s been over two years and Sam still can’t say it. Dean doesn’t really get what the big deal is. Being dead is just kind of a tradeoff for superpowers. It hasn’t been the horror show the reaper threatened him with._

_But Sam’s eyes brim with tears and scrubs a wrist across them before continuing. It’s not the most convincing case for adulthood._

_“Yeah. You aren’t supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be on my own, living my own life instead of living for you. I should be coming home to an empty house. Hell, I should have sold this house.”_

_“Don’t you fucking sell this house, Sammy,” Dean warns, but Sam blows right past his point, still making his own._

_“It’s like, everywhere else in my life I’m a top law student who’s ‘succeeding in the face of adversity’ and everybody refers to you and Mom and Dad in the past tense. And then I come home and I’m just the kid brother you order around.”_

_“Oh whatever. I don’t order you around.” Dean scoffs, though he’s suddenly aware he’d issued an order not thirty seconds earlier._

_“Last night I got out lettuce and a tomato for a salad and you demanded I make a BLT instead. And how many movies have you sent me out to watch so I can come home and tell you about them?”_

_“Hey, you liked_ The Godfather _!”_

_“That isn’t the point Dean!” Sam yells, then plops his face into his palm._

_When he looks up, he’s shaking his head. “No. No, I’m not doing this. This is the problem. You arguing in circles, running away from the point, distracting me like I’m a kid you can fool into acceptance. I can’t do it anymore. I shouldn’t have to. You shouldn’t have this power over me.”_

_Dean doesn’t feel the cold, but he can see Sam’s breath in the air between them and feel a surge of power the way blood used to pound through his veins. “The hell are you saying, Sam? You wish I was dead?”_

_Dean’d heard Sam shout those words before plenty of times, at Dad._

_“No, I’m saying you are dead, Dean, and I wish you would’ve let go. I wish you would’ve left me. You should have. But you didn’t and now— Now I have to be the one strong enough to do it. So, I’m leaving.”_

_Sam turns for the door and Dean senses the room behind him shift. He’s vaguely aware of the scratch of furniture across the floor, of glass shattering, lights flickering fast._

_“Don’t you dare, Sam! Don’t you dare walk out that door.”_

_Sam pauses with the door handle in his grip. The hang of his head and hair block his face from view. “I can’t be here. I have to go,” he repeats, more for himself than for Dean._

_He pulls open the door._

_Sam steps through the threshold, screen door held open, and steels himself as Dean hurls words at him._

_“Sam! Don’t you dare. You do this and I’ll never forgive you. You’ll never come back, you hear me? Sam! After all I did for you? Sam?”_

_Shoulders tight and knuckles white around his duffle bag handles, Sam walks across the porch and down the steps._

_“Don’t you do it, Sam! Don’t you dare leave me here. Sam! Sam! SAMMY!”_

_Sam doesn’t look back._

_It’s Dean who slams the door._

*

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Sam’s in the passenger seat, his knees grazing the dash even with the seat pushed all the way back. 

Castiel glances at the rearview mirror to check on Meg. They’re three hours into their second four-hour drive of the day, and they’d gotten up early to meet Sam by midmorning. She’s laying in the backseat and using her leather jacket as a pillow, asleep. 

“Yes, of course.” 

“How well did you know Dean? I mean, it sounds like you were friends. Close friends.” 

It’s not an unexpected question, what with Meg’s _tragic romance_ dig. But Castiel finds it hard to answer. He’d spent so much time doing his own questioning his relationship with Dean—whether it was real, or too good to be true, or unhealthy. Or over. He decides to focus on the specifics of Sam’s question, like a well-coached witness for the defense.

“I think I got to know him very well. When he was around, he was rarely silent.” 

Sam chuffs. “Yeah, sounds familiar. But—”

“But that isn’t what you’re asking.”

“Yeah.”

“I know it doesn’t sound particularly sane, but we lived—or, well—existed together. It was easy to be close.” 

Sam waits, and Castiel gives in with a sigh. “I loved your brother. I do love him. He helped me through a very dark time with humor and companionship.” 

“And Dean, he’s . . . ? I mean, we never talked about it. It never occurred to me. Not that there’s anything wrong with it! Really. I just wish he would’ve told me, I guess. For the most part I was a kid, you know? He definitely hooked up with plenty of girls, but never dated anyone seriously. I always thought maybe that was because of the war or taking care of me, or whatever.” Sam fidgets with a sleeve cuff, seeming so much younger than his near-sixty years. 

“I can’t speak for him, Sam. But I do believe he loved me too.” 

“Of course. Yeah. That’s— I’m glad. That he had you, eventually, I mean.” 

The highway stretches out straight and lonely between empty fields of harvested corn, all under a gray afternoon sky.

Castiel takes his eyes off the road for a second to see Sam looking helplessly down at his hands.

“He loves you too, Sam. He’s proud of you and protective of your memory.” 

Head still hanging, Sam nods. “And he’s angry with me. He’s been angry at me for thirty-five years.” 

“Maybe,” Castiel allows, thinking back on the photo album skidding out of his reach, on how Dean’s difficulty talking about Sam caused so many arguments. “But I think that’s because anger is easier than hurt.” 

Sam looks up at Castiel with wide eyes before turning to squint out at the never-ending highway. He doesn’t share what he’s thinking, but it’s clear he’s had some kind of breakthrough.

*

Castiel gazes up at the hundred-year-old farmhouse that’s become his home. The windows reflect the fading autumn sunlight like the eerie shine of cat eyes, and the porch is a dark grin sweeping along the front. For the first time in months, he finds himself afraid to enter. Maybe this is what his poor realtor had felt the day of his first visit—and that makes him wonder how many times Dean had scared her off before Castiel arrived.

He’d half expected to see Dean looking out from one of the windows, keeping watch, ready for them. But he isn’t there. Or, rather, he isn’t visible. 

“Ready?” Meg asks, as she had not even twelve hours earlier outside Sam’s house. 

“No,” Castiel answers again, only this time Sam says it with him. He looks to his left and Sam shrugs. 

“I don’t think anybody’s ready to meet the ghost of their dead brother. And I’ve done it before.”

Meg tilts her head, accepting that. Castiel frowns back at the house. 

They have a plan. It’s risky. Riskier than anything Castiel would have attempted on his own. But it also makes more sense than everything he’d read in the past two days, and Sam’s been thinking about it for over two decades. “I considered it back in the day,” he’d explained, “But, honestly, it got to the point I didn’t want to stick around whether Dean was there or not. So I just took off.” 

Meg had volunteered to station herself outside to help stage another rescue if Dean attempted to trap them again. The bay window was broken, but she’d pointed out Dean was more than capable of blocking or covering it. And Castiel suspected she was wary of reliving any part of her past supernatural experience. 

They step forward as a group, trekking the remaining distance to the house in solidarity. Meg stops at the top of the porch stairs. Castiel wraps a finger through the screen door handle, and Sam clicks on the flashlight he brought with them, knowing first-hand Dean’s electricity tricks. Sam nods. Castiel holds his breath and opens the screen door. He’s not sure whether to pray the front door opens or not. 

The latch gives under this thumb and the old wooden door eases inward with Castiel’s gentle push. 

It’s dim inside, but not fully dark. Still, Sam scans the flashlight beam around as they enter. 

“Oh my God,” he whispers. “It’s exactly as I remember it. Better, even. Cas, you did so much.”

Castiel steps over a torn throw pillow and some remains of the bookcases and has the exact opposite thought. He hardly recognizes his home, and so much is ruined.

They move into the living room and Sam stops short when he sees the words on the wall—DON’T YOU DARE spelled out in jagged white gashes against the blood-red wall. 

“This is Dean.” It isn’t a question but Castiel nods. “It’s the last thing he said to me.” Sam’s voice quavers, and Castiel can feel the pain of Sam’s memory as acutely as he does his own. He puts a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder before turning away. 

“Your mother’s stereo is unharmed,” he says, and Sam shines his flashlight on the console next to Castiel. 

“Oh wow. This is— She loved this thing. So did Dean. I remember we used to listen to records over and over. He’d put them on and sing loud to help me forget fights with Dad. And then, after he died, he’d make me buy him new albums he read about.” Sam looks up to meet Castiel’s eyes. “This is crazy. It’s like you lived my life all over again. I’m so sorry.” 

Wishing away the lump in this throat, Castiel turns back toward the hall. He passes through into the dining room—which, other than some jostled wall art, remains largely untouched by Dean’s rampage—and stops at the china cabinet. “Hey, I recognize that guy,” Sam says, spotlighting the toy soldier through the glass. “We had a whole bucket of army men early on and used to play with ’em all the time. Can’t believe one survived.” Sam shines his light around the room and marvels more at Castiel’s work before continuing into the kitchen. 

Castiel stays near the soldier. The toy’s rifle is aimed at a nearby teapot and he seems undisturbed by events outside his hutch. Castiel folds his fingers around the matchbox in his coat pocket and silently asks forgiveness for what he’s about to do. The figure doesn’t offer any, but it’s the best Castiel can do. He steps back into the hall as Sam emerges from the kitchen, flashlight streaming ahead of him. 

Castiel puts a hand on the banister and nods to Sam, ready to mount the steps to complete his task, but when he turns back, static scratches in the air and then there’s Dean. 

He’s on the stairs, one shoulder propped against the wall like a casually dangerous sentry.

“Welcome home,” Dean taunts, and Castiel’s lungs don’t have the air to reply. He backs away from the staircase as Sam rounds the corner to stand by his side.

Sam’s flashlight beam cuts through Dean’s center but the ghost doesn’t flinch, of course. He’s powdery grey in the light, as near to dead as Castiel has ever seen him, and his eyes are empty black. Dean’s chin tilts down as he examines the beam and he raises his black gaze coyly up at Castiel.

“What, you so scared of me you bring backup?” Debris begins to lift off the floor. Pieces of broken picture frame, shards of ceramic lamp, they hover at thigh height, ready to fly with a flick of Dean’s open hand. 

Castiel stiffens, fear and sorrow tearing like a set of claws in his chest, but Sam is drawn forward. Jaw muscle jumping with tension, he takes a step nearer Dean simultaneously positioning himself, and his very square broad shoulders, in front of Castiel.

“It’s me, Dean.”

“Me who,” Dean spits back, but his expression morphs from blank disinterested into a sneer as he recognizes his brother. “No. Fuck you.” The junk in the air lurches into motion and Sam and Castiel stumble back a few steps, Sam shrinking into his shoulders and Castiel ducking under a raised elbow. “The hell you think you’re doing, Cas?” Dean asks, descending the stairs and pressing forward.

“I want to help you,” Castiel answers, pouring as much love as he can into the words even as he retreats. He wants to take Dean back to the night they met, he wants to reclaim Dean from whatever’s swallowed him. He wants and wants what never should’ve been possible to begin with.

Sam draws Dean’s attention. “He came to ask me about you, Dean. He’s worried. We’re both worried.” 

“You can shove it.” Dean pushes the air with one hand and Sam flies off his feet, barreling backward into the dining room wall. “I’m not talking to you.” 

Castiel sprints to Sam’s side and pulls at an elbow to help him up. “I got this,” Sam whispers as he gets to his feet. “Go.” 

It’s the plan, Castiel reminds himself. They predicted this, or something similar. It’s why Castiel is the one with the matches. 

“Nice to see you too, brother,” Sam says, right hand wrapped around his left ribs. He didn’t bother to pick up the flashlight and it spills light across the floor and down the hallway. Castiel inches in the opposite direction, into the dark and behind Dean.

He steals a look out the screen door as he passes and sees Meg hovering in the shadow to one side. She raises a hand in a careful wave but knows to stay silent. This is Sam’s show now. 

“Some brother you turned out to be,” Dean is saying. “You’re a traitor to this family.”

“To you, you mean,” Sam clarifies, no less calm than he would be in a deposition. 

“To me, to Dad. Hell, to Bobby. And you come back now to ‘help’? It’s a little late for that, Sammy, don’t you think? We’re all dead!” 

As Dean spreads his arms wide, attention totally on Sam, Castiel bolts for the stairs, leaping up them two at time. He’s down the hall and at the attic door by the time he hears a booming, “YOU LEFT,” from Dean, followed by another crash. Castiel sends a prayer to whatever’s out there that Sam’s okay and dashes up the attic steps. 

It’s too early for moonlight up here, but he can see the footlocker is still where he’d left it, photos and photo album adrift across the floor nearby. 

Castiel crosses the attic as quickly and quietly as he can and pushes the photos far behind himself, further smearing pictures across the floor. It doesn’t matter as long as they’re out of the way, away from what he’s about to do. He yanks open the trunk. 

From the pocket opposite the matches, Castiel pulls out the slim plastic canister of salt they’d purchased with the flashlight and cracks open the seal. He dumps a circle of grains around the footlocker and then into it, over it, covering the contents in white until the canister is empty. And then he reaches for the matches. 

He fumbles a match from the box and closes his eyes, poised to strike. “I’m sorry, Dean.” 

The match tip catches on the first try and flares to yellow life. Castiel drops it into the footlocker and lights another. The soft smell of sulfur fills his senses as he lights a third. This time the match lands on Vonnegut and the cover catches. It spreads fast over the dry cotton of the flack jacket. When the flames reach the WINCHESTER name patch, Castiel has to look away. He gets to his feet and tosses in the whole match box, swallowing hard against heartache. 

The hope is that the contents burn before the trunk. The goal is to get back up here before the whole thing burns a hole in the floor.

As soon as he reaches the upstairs hall, he hears an outraged howl. It’s Dean. Castiel hurls himself down the stairs and skids to halt next to where Sam is crumpled on the floor, not far into the living room. He’s bloodied and bruised but conscious, and staring at Dean. 

Dean’s glowing. 

He’s also screaming. Screaming and writhing where he stands from the pain of some inner battle.

The glow is fiery, yellow as a lit match, and it’s creeping up his ankles, his calves. 

“Dean!” Castiel doesn’t know what else to do. If this is the plan working, this is also goodbye. “Dean!” It can’t be goodbye. Not like this. 

Sam’s upright now, and he grabs a fistful of Castiel’s coat to hold him back. Dean roars one last time and doubles over. His whole body heaves with deep breaths, even though he doesn’t need any, and when he looks up his forehead is sweaty. But his eyes are green. 

“Cas! Jesus, what happened? Was I—” Dean straightens and his face goes tight. “Sammy?” 

Sam bursts into relieved laughter. Elbows propped on knees, he hangs his head before smiling up at Dean, eyes shining. “Hey, Dean.” 

Castiel gives Sam a hand up and together they move closer.

“Sammy, how— Was that me?”

Sam waves off Dean’s concern. “I deserved it. It’s worth seeing you again.” 

“But why are you back? What’s—” Dean notices the glow. It’s as high as his hips now.

“We don’t have a lot of time, Dean,” Castiel tells him, confirming the fear spreading over Dean’s face.

“No. No no no no, I’m not leaving. I can’t leave. Sam! Sam, Jesus, look at you! You grew up. And Cas—” Dean’s voice breaks and so does Castiel’s dam of restraint. His face crumples in tears and he lets out a sob as the flame glow reaches Dean’s ribs. It’s starting to emanate from him rather than consume him. 

Dean darts out a hand, palm open and fingers spread. If his eyes were still black, Castiel would panic and duck. But they’re clear green. Castiel meets Dean’s hand with his own and interlaces their fingers. 

“I don’t want to go,” Dean whispers, gruff. “You just got here.” Castiel laughs, but Dean is all seriousness. “Take care of the old place, okay?” he says, but what Castiel hears is _don’t forget me._

“Of course. Dean, I—”

“And you take care of him,” Dean calls to Sam, bobbing his chin at Castiel. Yellow glow creeps down Dean’s arm, igniting it from within, and Castiel feels its icy burn just before Dean pulls away. 

“Never stopped loving you, brother,” Sam replies, and Dean grins. 

In a hot white flash he’s gone. And all around them, the lights flicker on throughout the house.


	11. Chapter 11

The night of Dean’s passing, they drank. First they put out the fire, then they cleaned up Sam’s scrapes, and then they found a liquor store and drank it. Or that’s how it had felt the following day. Eileen drove over from Lebanon to take Sam home. He and Castiel parted with a hug.

Four days after Dean, Castiel resigned from his position, citing family reasons. It isn’t wholly untrue. He lost a loved one. And Michael’s offer still looms. 

Ten days after Dean, Castiel returns to the house. On Meg’s recommendation, he’d hired a professional cleaner that specializes in crime scenes and would also arrange for contractors to fix the damaged window, wall, and bookcases in the living room. They did admirable work, but as Castiel roams the first floor he can’t help but feel an emptiness—and it’s not just the missing décor. 

Castiel visits the china hutch and takes the toy soldier from the shelf. He curls the figure in the palm of his hand, rifle poking out between his fingers.

He’s done crying, but not mourning. 

*

The days get shorter and colder. By early November the maple in the front yard is bare, its rust orange leaves crisping to brown and covering Castiel’s car, which hasn’t moved in weeks. 

He’s unshowered so far today, wearing the same sweatshirt he pulled on two days ago, and wrapped in a blanket. When he’d caught a glimpse of his hair in the reflection of the microwave earlier it was sticking up like a late-’90s boy band member’s. He still hasn’t bothered to fix it. 

Clutching a mug of coffee and trailing a blanket, Castiel moves from the window to the couch. A folder of Meg’s research is strewn over the coffee table. Microfiche printouts, mostly. John and Mary’s obituaries are in there, and Dean’s. A story about Sam making valedictorian. A hundred-year-old notice about Dean’s great-grandfather purchasing the land where he eventually built the house. Ads from the ’60s and ’70s for a repair shop called Singer Salvage, where Dean had worked. There are also copies of photos—Mary Campbell and her prize pony, an engagement photo of young John Winchester posed in his uniform with Mary in his arms, every high school yearbook photo Meg could find of Dean and Sam. 

It’s a pile of answers to all the questions he can longer ask. He’d assumed he had more time. Forever, even. Because who thinks ghosts can die?

Castiel picks up Dean’s obit and sits back, toes propped on the coffee table. The photo seems to have been cropped from a group shot. Dean’s smile is loose, bending his cheeks until his crow’s feet show, even in black and white. He’s got on a plaid shirt over a black tee. Castiel guesses it’s not a photo of him in uniform given the anti-war, anti-military sentiment of the time, including Sam’s, but the text does reference his service. The list of “preceded in death” is longer than the “survived by.” 

He sets the obit back down with his coffee mug and flops back into the couch, head lolling along the top cushions. The bookcases Dean destroyed are now repaired. No longer created by Castiel’s own two hands, of course, but beautiful, like they were meant to be tucked into that wall of the room. 

When Meg and Castiel had gone up to extinguish the footlocker fire, Castiel had collected Dean’s photos from the floor and given them to Sam. They looked through them together as they drowned their sorrows in alcohol, and Castiel lingered on a photo he hadn’t seen during his first trip up the attic. When he passed it to Sam, Sam pushed it back at him and said, “Keep this one.” So Castiel did. And he framed it. And it’s the only thing on the bookshelves. Dean, leaning against the Impala, leather jacket with the collar turned up and hands in his pockets, parked along the street in front of the house. 

Castiel stuffs his hand into the front pocket of his hoodie and grips the toy soldier so tight it hurts. Sometimes there are still tears. 

He wakes up hours later and rubs salty crust from his eyes.

*

“When’s the last time you were somewhere other than here?” Meg eyes the dishes stacked in the sink and mutters, “At least I know you’re eating.”

“I’m fine.” Castiel straightens his spine and tugs his shoulders out of their slump. “Really.”

“Well that bullshit doesn’t answer my question. And it’s cold in here. Have you turned on your heat yet?” 

Castiel slumps again. He’s still got the blanket wrapped around his shoulders—because it is, in fact, cold in here—so better posture wasn’t a convincing act to begin with. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Meg makes a doubtful face. “What part?”

“Any of it,” Castiel mumbles, leaning forward into a full faceplant on the kitchen table. 

“Ah.” She pulls out a chair to join him. “It’s okay to miss him and still live, you know.”

“I know.” 

But that doesn’t mean he wants to. Not that he wants to  _ not _ live, either. He just doesn’t have energy to do more than exist. 

It had snowed a few nights ago, an early dusting, and Castiel had stood in the window of his bedroom watching the white flakes stir in the dark. It occurred to him then—and he’s thought about it every day since—that he’s the ghost looking out from the window now. He’s the spirit roaming these empty rooms. Not living, not moving on. Existing, alone.

“Losing someone—”

Castiel sits up and looks straight at her, putting a stop to that lecture before it begins. “I didn’t lose him. I killed him.” 

Meg’s eyebrows rise in tandem, then pity takes over her face. “Oh, Clarence, no. No, no. He’s gone but . . .” It’s clear she doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Castiel wouldn’t if he were in her place either, but he’s thought about this, a lot.

“But he was already dead, I know. But I also know he was here. He was a presence, and the reason that presence is no longer here is because I set him on fire. This wasn’t a breakup. He didn’t just die in another horrible, random accident. I lit a match, and I killed him.” 

He’s not crying. This is a fact. But Meg’s eyes bubble with tears. “No, Cas. That’s not true. You helped him. He was sick, he was dangerous. He needed you to release him.” 

Castiel used to argue that to himself too. He repeated it so often it stopped making sense, like when a word is spoken so many times the whole thing falls apart into unrecognizable letter sounds. 

“Okay, look. Is Sam mad at you?” 

Castiel cocks his head. “No. Why?” 

“Because if I had a brother and you killed him, I’d be pissed at you. Supremely, want-to-gank-you-in-revenge pissed.”

“Sam had already made peace with Dean’s death,” Castiel reasons. “It doesn’t matter to him that he’s gone.” 

“The hell it doesn’t! We rolled up into his life and told him he could still talk to his brother, that he had a second chance to make peace. You were closer than me, but from where I was standing it looked to me like they did that. And that wasn’t despite what you did, it was because of it. Is Sam sad? Sure. But he’s at peace too. Because of you.”

It’s suddenly too warm under the blanket—he can feel the heat creeping up his neck—but Castiel stubbornly doesn’t shrug it off.

“Lemme guess, that probably hadn’t occurred to you.”

Castiel glares at her. “No.”

Meg nods. “You gotta get out of this house, Clarence.”

*

After being coaxed out to dinner with Meg twice over the course of a week and to coffee with Sam and Eileen one Sunday, Castiel begins to move around the house with a bit more purpose. 

Some days are a struggle against brain fog, a muzzy feeling that stops short of actual headache pressure but inhibits connecting thoughts. It’s the feeling he definitely wasn’t experiencing back when Dean first started hiding his tools, but the results are the same—little projects left unfinished or a hammer set down in the kitchen instead of completing its journey to the tool bench he’s creating in the basement. 

Now that major house repairs are complete—and there’s no one to share new projects with—Castiel begins clearing out his workroom upstairs and making homes for all his handyman acquisitions from the summer on the benches and shelves that line a wall of the basement. This requires making several trips a day down the stairs from the second floor, through the hall, down the plank steps to the basement, and then back up again, which certainly makes up for all the exercise he hadn’t been getting the previous weeks. 

His goal is to finally convert that empty upstairs room into a home office. He has no particular need for a home office at the moment, of course, but it’s a familiar part of a home to have. And filling up a bedroom will help the second floor feel more lived-in and less like his bedroom is a converted bunk room in an abandoned orphanage. 

More than once Castiel’s been startled by an echo of movement out of the corner of his eye or the flash of someone standing where there’s no one. 

It’s false hope. The result of traveling from the dark basement to bright upper floors or increased blood flow from all the bending and lifting. 

And anyway, out-of-sight haunting was never Dean’s style. 

* 

Maple Grove Cemetery isn’t exactly what Castiel would call a beautiful resting place, or even peaceful. There’s a Kansas DOT center on one side and a concrete paving company on the other, both visible through the sparse trees. That said, the trees themselves are gnarled giants with branches that must blot out the sun when in full summer leaf. It’s cold today, though, and the branches have been naked for weeks. 

Castiel drives slowly along the dirt two-track loop of the cemetery until Sam says to stop. As they exit the car, the beep of a truck backing up cuts through the chilly air and Sam shrugs in answer to Castiel’s skeptical look. “Used to be rural land all around here. Guess they paved paradise and put up a parking lot.”

Castiel chuckles and shuts his door, adding the boop-boop of his key fob to the chorus. He joins Sam and follows as he picks a path through the grave markers toward one of the trees at the outside edge of the loop. 

“Dean once told me the family plot was under a tree,” Castiel says. 

Hands in his coat pockets for warmth, Sam juts his chin toward the large tree ahead of them. “Yeah. Campbell side. We don’t know much about the Winchesters, actually. But Mom’s family’s been buried here since Great Grandpa Campbell bought the farm.” Sam blushes. “I mean built the house. You know. Anyway, Mom ended up here so Dad did too. And then Dean.”

And just as he says it, he stops at a set of three small grave markers. They all lie flat in the earth, carved stones almost covered by the winter grass with just over a foot between them. 

Mary Campbell Winchester. John Winchester. Dean Winchester. 

Sam answers the question Castiel didn’t know how to ask yet. “Cremated. Family tradition even before it was church-approved.” He tilts his head. “Or maybe it was always just the cheaper option. Never really thought about why.”

Castiel nods. His family has a mausoleum—decidedly not a cheaper option—so he’s not about to question anyone’s family burial practices. 

Hands still in his pockets, Sam waves an elbow between Castiel and Dean’s headstone. “Do you— Do you want a minute? I can—” 

For all his grace as a litigator, Sam has a boyish immaturity around Castiel’s relationship with Dean that’s charming in its awkwardness. It might be love-after-death issue or maybe just the thought of older-brother Dean in love anybody at all, Castiel doesn’t know, but it’s easy to imagine Sam had been this way with his daughters, too—the father who wants to give his girls respectful space but is simultaneously terrified about teen pregnancy.

“No, it’s alright. Dean’s true resting place was the house. I’ll say goodbye to him there. I just wanted to know this part of his story too.” 

Castiel crouches down to run his fingers over the carved DEAN WINCHESTER and, below it, 1946–1972. “It’s strange to think he’s never been here, or seen this. Everything else I’ve touched that belonged to Dean is something he’d touched too.” 

He stands again and looks around at the other Campbell headstones. Some are upright, others have statues with names carved in their bases. It’s an impressive thing, to belong to a place for generations. 

“So you’re sure you’re gonna go?” Sam asks. “You mentioned it before, but . . .” 

Castiel nods. “It’s the right thing to do. I leave next week.” 

“You gonna try to sell the house?” Sam toes the ground, his youthful ungainliness belied by the tuft of graying hair that falls in his eyes.

Castiel squints up at the tree branches and the cold Kansas sun. “I don’t think so. Not yet.” 

*

His suits are neatly hung in travel bags. He has a few boxes of other necessities stacked by the front door. His clothes and toiletries for the road are in another bag. It’s a long drive back to NYC but Castiel is prepared for it this time. He’s spent the last week curating iPod playlists of ’70s rock with suggestions from Sam.

No movers this time. He’s not emptying the house. Angelus owns several furnished apartments and Castiel has been promised one for the duration of his stay. He’s agreed to a few months, though Michael will probably find a way to try to extend that. 

Castiel is currently in elbow-length rubber kitchen gloves and leaning bodily into his empty refrigerator with a bucket of warm sudsy water on the floor next to him. He scrubs harder on a stubborn spot at the memory of Michael’s smug voice. 

When Castiel had called Michael’s secretary to make arrangements for his return she’d transferred him to Michael’s direct line. “The prodigal son returns! I hope you’ve enjoyed your sojourn,” Michael had greeted, as though Castiel had voluntarily decided to walk out on his life for an eight-month vacation and not been summarily and permanently dismissed. 

The unidentified goo loosens and Castiel leans back on his heels to rinse his sponge. Maybe in the future this house will serve as a place of refuge for him.

For now, he’s returned the potted plants—the ones that survived his escape out the bay window, that is—to Meg for safe keeping. She’s also promised to come check on the house periodically, make sure the pipes don’t burst over the winter, etc. “And I’ll bring some sage, do a smudging or two,” she’d said, “Make sure no new ghosts move in.” Castiel isn’t sure she was joking. 

Just in case, Castiel tucked the ouija board in a closet upstairs, buried under extra blankets. Meg and Sam favored throwing it out. Sam shared that early on in Dean’s haunting days, he’d bought his own “talking spirit board” to give Dean a way to communicate, but that was the first time an uninvited guest showed up and Dean learned some ghosting lessons the hard way. Meg apologized for ever having suggested Castiel purchase the board now that she’d heard Sam and Dean’s point of view on the thing. But Castiel wasn’t ready to part with it—he found it sentimental, in a way. 

He’s stretching deep into the fridge again when he thinks he hears a knock. It’s enough to make him pause and cock an ear to listen harder, despite his early conditioning to ignore sounds like this in the house. Knocks and bumps and door slammings don’t happen on their own anymore, though. Sure enough, there’s a second set of knocks. 

Castiel gets to his feet and heads out to the hall. He doesn’t know who would be paying him a visit, but he’s preoccupied by trying to dislodge at least one hand from the rubber gloves. He shakes his right hand free just as he reaches the door and pulls it open. 

Cold air wafts in and standing on the porch, just on the other side of the screen door, is a young man. His hair is sandy brown, eyes surprisingly green, and his smile is achingly familiar. Castiel stops breathing and isn’t sure whether it’s the shock of cold or shock of resemblance. 

“This the Novak place?” the man asks, a knowing irony sparking in his eyes.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes out. He doesn’t know how, he only knows it for certain.

Dean’s smile goes shy. “Hey, Cas.” 

*

_ Heaven—if that’s what this is—isn’t what Dean expected. For one thing, it’s not a place. For another, there’s no other dead people. All that “see you on the other side” and “they’re together in Heaven” talk appears to be wishful thinking. Dean’s not rubbing elbows with John Winchester or Jesus or Jimi Hendrix or anybody.  _

_ Instead, he’s been treated to a greatest hits collection of his best memories, including stuff he wasn’t even aware was stored in his noggin somewhere. _

_ None of that’s to say it’s a bad time. Just more solitary. Like a road trip down your own memory lane, guaranteed good times only. _

_ He drifts between memories in no particular order. For a while he watches his seventeen-year-old self shooting off fireworks with Sam in the field behind the house on the Fourth of July. Sam’s delight as colors erupt against the sky threatens to burst Dean’s heart like one of the rockets, then and now.  _

_ After that he sees himself at age four, teddy-bear t-shirt and all, basking in his mom’s attention as she dotes on him. This is one of the memories he didn’t know was stored away. Sure, he’d always missed his mom, had impressions of what her hugs felt like and how her hair smelled. But that’s nothing compared to being called his mom’s little angel and offered pie.  _

_ He’s surprised to end up in Vietnam a couple times. Once at a bar in Saigon drunkenly singing “Take Me Home, Country Roads” at the top of his lungs with a bunch of guys from his unit. It’s a song he would never be caught dead singing while sober, which he supposes isn’t really a problem anymore. At the time he was sure he’d die every tomorrow, so there was no reason not to let ’er rip. And eventually, country roads had taken him home. _

_ Memories of good times at the garage with Bobby or fishing trips with his dad are intercut with teenage fumblings in cars and studying album art while listening to records with Sam and stolen moments with Cas.  _

_ Cas with that adorable furrow in his forehead as he operates his circular sander for the first time, or holds paint samples that all look the same up to the light. Cas before he knew Dean, washing every inch of that old place and talking to Dean’s old army man like it was his best friend. Cas laughing next to him on the couch, so close—so fucking close—and a whole plane of existence away.  _

_ Dean had some pretty serious haunting chops by the time Cas came on the scene, but putting the ghost moves on him required some next-level energy tapping that Dean had spent enough time dead to know wasn’t totally kosher. Even though he couldn’t feel a damn thing when he was solid enough for Cas to touch, Cas could and Dean was never sorry for a second.  _

_ Except toward the end, obviously. Best he could figure, all the energy draws coupled with his few decades of being dead led to the blackouts and, ultimately, to losing Cas.  _

_ But fuck. He’s in a memory of Cas sitting at the kitchen table covered in library books and holding a PBJ he seems to have forgotten about in one hand, and Dean has never felt sappier or happier, then or now.  _

_ “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the one who got away. You’d be surprised by how little that happens, you know.”  _

_ Dean wheels around to see the same woman with dark hair and sad eyes he’d met umpteen years before. _

_ “Tessa,” he whispers. _

_ She smiles. “That’s one of my names, yes. And don’t worry, he can’t hear you. The memory plays out no matter what. Though there doesn’t seem to be much action in this one,” she adds as Cas remembers his sandwich and takes a bite. _

_ Dean rolls his eyes, part bluff, part affection for Cas, and changes the subject. “I’ve been here for—I don’t know, do you guys even bother with time in this place?—and you’re the first anybody I’ve seen. What gives?” _

_ “You shouldn’t be here, Dean. I’ve been sent to move you on.” _

_ Dean throws up his hands. “Now what? I’m on the ‘other side,’ aren’t I? How am I still in the wrong place?” Even as he says it, a dread Dean thinks it shouldn’t be possible to experience in Heaven fills his gut. He clenches his jaw tight against the air raid sirens in his brain warning that Hell’s seconds away.  _

_ “Relax,” Tessa says, and Dean is affronted that no one told him ESP was part of the afterlife. “If you were bound for Hell, you’d be hanging out with the demons by now.” _

_ Dean winces away a memory of demons and hopes his surroundings don’t shift. Thankfully, the kitchen stays put and Cas turns a page and coughs as peanut butter sticks in his throat.  _

_ “But to answer your question, this memory isn’t from when you were alive. You’re not supposed to have this, to be here.” She gestures around the kitchen.  _

_ “Oh, for the love of—” Dean doesn’t finish the sentence, just in case there’s someone around to offend. “Let’s try this one more time: what’s your point? Straight answers only.” _

_ “The point is you keep cheating the system, Dean. First you reject death, then you defy Heaven’s rules.” _

_ Dean frowns. “Yeah well, there wasn’t exactly a welcoming committee explaining any rules. And anyway, I can’t help what I remember.” _

_ “No, you can’t. But every time you step into one of these memories, you’re too close to piercing the veil for anyone’s comfort. To keep you upsetting the order of things—again—you’re being given a second shot.”  _

_ “Second shot at what?” Dean asks, but Tessa doesn’t explain that either. Instead, she approaches and lays a hand on his chest and leans up to kiss him on the cheek the same way she had years ago. Only this time when her lips make contact a light pulses bright and Dean finds himself standing at the end of his driveway in Kansas.  _

_ “What the hell?” _

_ “I’ll see you again someday, Dean,” Tessa tells him. “Until then, do good with what you’re given. You’ll be coming with me next time.” She smiles and then she’s gone. Just gone, just like before. _

_ At first Dean thinks it’s another memory—maybe from when Rufus dropped him off after he got back from ’Nam. But there’s no leaves on the tree in the yard so that doesn’t square.  _

_ Because it’s winter, Dean realizes with a shiver. He doesn’t have a coat and, actually, he’s cold.  _

_ Dean’s eyes go wide and he pats his chest, his face, his hips. Everywhere he presses, nerve endings register touch. He holds out his arms and laughs when he sees goosebumps. His laugh turns into white wisps in the air and Dean brings cupped hands to his mouth and blows. Warmth spreads over his fingertips. He blows again and savors the punch of hot air from his lungs.  _

_ “Holy shit.” He’s alive.  _

_ Miracles don’t happen. Hard and fast rule of the universe, in Dean’s experience.  _

_ Except this one. This once.  _

_ Aware of where he is but not so sure when he is, Dean starts up the driveway. He marvels at the crunch of frozen gravel under his boots—a sound he makes without even trying—and the easy swing of his joints. He does a jump and clicks his heels in the air just because he can.  _

_ As he gets closer he notices there’s a car parked next to the house. A car that definitely isn’t the Impala. In fact, it’s a car he’s only ever seen from the other direction, while looking out through the windows.  _

_ “Cas.”  _

_ His heart skips an actual beat and goddamn—it’s been more than a while since that’s happened.  _

_ Dean’s up the porch steps in seconds but stops as he approaches the door. He doesn’t know what to say, or how to explain any of this. _ Hey honey, I’m back from the dead  _ isn’t as funny as it should be.  _

_ He shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. This is an honest to God second chance and there’s no way he’s not seizing it.  _

*

Castiel is frantic and the stupid freakin’ rubber glove won’t come off. He tugs at the wrist and the squishy fingers and then yanks the end by his elbow and peels the whole damn thing off inside out, whipping it to the ground. The second it’s off he presses a hand to Dean’s chest. Dean’s real, firm chest. 

Dean’s got the screen door open and is laughing at his rubber glove debacle. His laugh has weight, it rumbles under Castiel’s palm, and Castiel can’t think of what else to do but grab Dean by the shoulder and pull him directly into a kiss, because now that laugh is against his chest, the breath of it huffed out across his cheek, and Dean . . . 

Dean’s lips aren’t cold. They’re soft and giving and Dean’s cheeks have stubble and when Castiel widens the kiss Dean’s tongue is right there to meet his own. 

Dean slips an arm around Castiel—a strong arm, fitted tightly against his ribs—and presses a hand flat along his back. Castiel allows himself to be walked backward, out of the doorway, and only breaks the kiss so he can hold more of Dean closer. 

The hug lingers for long seconds until Castiel is sure of the heartbeat that’s not his. When he pulls back, Dean reaches for Castiel’s hand and presses it against his cheek. The initial chill of his skin warms under Castiel’s touch and Dean shuts his eyes and leans into Castiel’s palm. Castiel sees Dean’s eyelashes are damp. 

“Hello, Dean,” he responds, finally, and Dean laughs and opens his eyes. “How are you . . .”

“Alive?”

“I was going to say ‘here’ but all things considered yours in the better question.” 

Dean’s arms are still slung around Castiel’s waist, his hands folded at the base of Castiel’s spine. Castiel’s hands haven’t stopped roaming, smoothing up and down Dean’s arms, fingers drifting up to skim his forehead, the shell of his ear, the corner of his jaw.

“I’m not a hundred percent on the details but I think the gist of it is I broke heaven.” Castiel lifts an eyebrow and Dean shrugs. “I get the sense this is a do-over. Like, if I do it right this time, maybe I’ll be less of a stubborn ass at the end.”

Castiel smiles. He reaches behind him for one of Dean’s hands and threads their fingers together, squeezing their palms tight, and kisses the top of the fist it makes. “We have a long time before the end.” 

Dean’s whole face softens in a way Castiel has never seen. It really does look as though he’s relaxed for the first time decades. “Yeah, we do.” Dean pulls their combined fist into his chest, and leans in for another kiss. 

He stops short of contact, though, brows bunched and mouth suddenly in an unhappy pout. “You going somewhere, Cas?” 

Castiel follows Dean’s gaze toward the boxes stacked at the door and laughs. He looks back to Dean with a grin. “No. I’m not going anywhere. I’m home.”


	12. Epilogue

_Six months later . . ._

“Dean, no no no no no, don’t you dare!” Castiel laughs and swerves Dean comes at him with a paint-soaked brush.

He swipes his own brush in a feint at Dean’s middle. Dean sucks in his stomach but his t-shirt doesn’t make it out unscathed. “’Tis but scratch!” Dean shouts and tugs his shirt up and over his with ease, until it reaches his wrist and the paint brush.

Castiel takes the opportunity to make a break for it, rounding the corner to the front of the house. He plasters himself to the scraped and sanded wood siding to wait, heart hammering, and has to swallow giggles between breaths. 

It’s sunnier here than out back as midday slips to late afternoon. They’re only part way through their first coat of the house and this is their third paint fight. At this rate they’re going to have to buy more paint to even make it to a second coat, and they’re at risk of not getting the job done before their road trip to the West Coast in June. Dean wants to see the redwoods and drive through that one tree. Castiel wants to go wine tasting in Napa. They promised Sam they’d be back for fireworks in the backyard on the Fourth. 

The plan for now is to travel as much as possible and return home every time to this house. Thanks to a creative sourcing assist from Gabriel—who was so pleased to hear Castiel is out from under Michael’s thumb, he threatened to come visit—Dean has a fake driver’s license good enough to get him behind the wheel and land some contracting work while they’re not on the road. 

“You can run but you can’t hide!” Dean calls before he comes into view, and Castiel is ready for him. He flicks his brush hard as soon as Dean appears, droplets spraying over Dean’s bare arms and shoulders as he tries to block assault. “Oh that’s it, you are so done for,” Dean threatens. He swoops in close, bracketing Castiel in against the wall and Castiel feels paint globs land in his hair. 

Absurd happiness was never a future Castiel pictured for himself, but he can’t breathe for laughing, he’s dropped his brush in the spring grass, and Dean’s bare chest is most of his field of vision. 

He wrestles Dean’s wrist up and away from his head, then darts up to distract him with a kiss. Dean’s smile is tangible against his mouth, and their standoff with the paint brush ends as Dean allows himself to be distracted. 

Happiness isn’t uncomplicated. Dean’s status an undead, undocumented time immigrant means he’ll never be able to get the automative tech license he wants or participate in any other system that requires a social security number. Their peculiar meet-cute means dodging questions about their early relationship and carefully curating friendships. These are the risks associated with Dean’s cosmic penance and the risks associated with Castiel’s choice to love him, to make this house a home, to stay. 

Living, it turns out, requires risk. 

Castiel pushes hard into the kiss, still play-fighting, and gets pinned firmly to the wall in exchange. Dean’s hips roll against his and Castiel moans before sucking a bite into Dean’s shoulder. Then he whispers, seductively as possible, “Drop the brush.”

“Never,” Dean taunts and shoves off the wall, paint brush making a wet stripe down Castiel’s arm as he bolts. 

Castiel gives chase as Dean arcs wide around the maple tree. Steps away from the black ’67 Chevy Impala in need of some engine work that’s parked in the drive, Dean does drop the brush and allows himself to be captured with another kiss.

“We have work to do,” Castiel pants.

“Uh-huh,” Dean agrees as he mouths his way along Castiel’s neck.

“We should probably stop.” 

“Uh-uh,” Dean disagrees, scooping hands behind Castiel’s thighs and lifting.

Castiel allows himself to be carried to the porch and up the steps, but drops his feet when they get there. He moves to sit on the top step, one hand gripped over Dean’s belted waistband to pull him into his lap. Dean complies into a straddle over Castiel’s thighs.

This kiss starts deep and stays slow. Dean slides one hand up the back of Castiel’s neck, fingers burying in his hair, while his other thumb strokes the jumping pulse in Castiel’s neck in a way that drives heat straight to Castiel’s groin. They chase each other’s taste between breaths and Castiel rakes his fingers down Dean’s bare back and sides, forever enchanted by all that inviting skin, by the warm swells of muscle, by Dean alive and well under his hands. 

“We definitely shouldn’t do this,” Castiel says, brushing a hand over Dean’s growing erection before flipping open the button of his jeans with absolutely no intention of stopping.

“Hnnnnnng,” Dean breathes and scoots up to help Castiel wriggle his jeans down his hips. Leave it to Dean Winchester to not have briefs on. 

Castiel shoots him a look. Dean’s answering smile is all mischief, his green eyes sparkling.

The Castiel of a year ago would never have considered instigating a hand job with his boyfriend outside in broad daylight, even at home alone in a house on a barely traveled country road. Too much risk. 

The Castiel of right now wraps his hand around Dean’s warm, firm cock and listens to him cuss, “Love it when you touch me, Cas. Fuck, yeah, just like that,” then has his mouth seized in another searing kiss.

Dean scrabbles with Castiel’s shorts while Castiel concentrates on keeping the soft, blunt head of Dean’s dick nudging against the base of his wrist. When Dean’s fingers find Castiel’s own cock he trembles, breathless.

Castiel lays back, flat against the porch boards, and Dean bends to follow, chasing kisses. Then it’s all a tangle of lips and hips and heat, smears of sweat and paint and precome as they tease each other toward the edge. Eventually Dean’s hand is around them both, and Castiel stretches his arms over his head, against the warm wood, reveling in the weight of Dean on his thighs and the hot strokes of his hand. “That’s it, Cas, let go. I got you,” Dean whispers and pleasure swirls inside Castiel, deep and strong. 

“Oh— Oh Dean, yes,” Castiel’s voice sinks to growl and he bucks as he comes, hands flying to dig hard into Dean’s hips, grounding him. Dean curses and laughs and follows him into orgasm.

Castiel savors the after. He tips his chin to kiss Dean’s sweaty hair and waits for his pounding heartbeat to slow and the shocky jolts of joy to subside. 

This is the thing about risk, Castiel knows now. Sometimes there are very satisfying rewards.

  
  


**— END —**


End file.
